When Worlds Collide
by Regina Noctis
Summary: Draco Malfoy, a desperate wizard and ready to die, meets Estella Bonavideo, a girl from another world who wants a way out. Indeed, they will find that they have more in common than meets the eye. . . when their respective worlds collide. HBP canon.
1. Prelude

Christmas morning, 1997, dawned cold and clear over the icy Thames River. A bitter wind blew across the water, whistling as it went and stirring up miniature waves wherever it passed. The sun's wintry light reflected in shards from the water, sending jagged bursts of light onto nearby buildings and people. It was a normally frigid winter morning, and the temperature was well below freezing at sunrise; only the bravest and hardiest of people could be seen walking along the streets, bundled up with puffy coats and woolen scarves as they headed about their early morning routines.

Given the time and the day, the normal traffic on London Bridge was almost non-existent. In fact, one could have described the bridge as entirely deserted—if it weren't for the lone figure sitting precariously on the railing and hanging on for dear life. A young man with matted blonde hair and strange, tattered black robes was contemplating the dark expanse of water that stretched out beneath him. Two dirty bare feet dangled listlessly over the railing. His thin arm, the grimy skin just visible through the many rips in his clothing, trembled dangerously as he leaned forward an inch or two, looking as if he was calculating the distance between himself and certain death in the unforgiving Thames.

Draco Malfoy had been sitting on London Bridge for at least an hour, and by now he was completely frozen to the bone. He didn't care, though—he didn't feel the chill all that much; more to the point, though, nothing really mattered to him anymore. He didn't care that he had been forced to roam Muggle London for the past seven months as a homeless bum, his parents murdered by the Dark Lord and his rightful estate seized by the same. He didn't care that he'd had to fight with other Muggle street urchins to find something to eat every day and somewhere to sleep each night; for the past few days, he had been too exhausted to succeed at even that. The last substance he could remember eating was the stale bread crust he had dug up from some garbage can on Fleet Street two days ago—the gutter water he'd been forced to drink since then didn't count as food.

Draco had already weighed his two most obvious options for the future while he lay curled up in various alleyways, trying in vain to find sleep and warmth where none would come. The first choice was that he could turn himself into the Ministry or the Order of the Phoenix and hope for the best. But considering how Professor Snape had just "betrayed" them—Draco knew better; the man didn't really have a choice after the Unbreakable Vow his mother and aunt had forced him to take—Draco didn't want to imagine the wrath that would be poured onto his head as the only available scapegoat. Besides, it really wasn't in him to humble himself before a pack of Dumbledore-worshipping fools who had hated him and his family almost as much as they did the Dark Lord—especially to Potter and his gaggle of Muggle-loving friends. Only Merlin knew how much he hated them! If there was any breath left in him, Draco swore that he would never force himself to that low of a level in front of that arrogant half-blood who had humiliated him all these years.

The other possibility, the one that Draco was welcoming with open arms, was death. No more pain, no more humiliation would he have to endure once he was gone from the face of this earth. It wasn't like anyone would be missing him if he disappeared. And even though he wasn't sure if he believed in an afterlife, there was always the chance that his mother and father would be waiting to meet him on the other side. Not to mention the fact that he was slowly dying of starvation and exposure as it was; both his physical and magical strength were fading day by day, and he'd had to stop every minute or so to rest when he'd made the mile-long journey to the bridge that morning. There was no question about it: Draco was tired of living and ready to die.

Well, almost ready. The one regret that Draco had, as he peered over the edge of the bridge again, was that he had never found the love of his life. His parents had loved him as much as they could, certainly, and his clique at school had worshipped the ground beneath his feet; but Draco had never been successful at finding the one girl of his dreams who could make him happy. Perhaps it had never been meant for him to be in love; but whenever he had seen Potter strutting around school with that know-it-all Muggle-born or with that Weasley girl, Draco had always felt the serpent of jealousy gnawing at his heart, or whatever was left of it.

Draco sighed. Such thoughts were getting him nowhere. He was sick and tired of his miserable existence, period. It was time to act. He took a deep breath and heaved himself into a standing position on the edge of the railing. He swayed dangerously, but he somehow managed to hang on to one of the many cables supporting the bridge. He wanted to do this nobly and on his own time, like a true Malfoy, not just fall over the edge like some clumsy Muggle. His free hand instinctively went to the pocket of his robes, and he was comforted by the warm wood of his wand at his fingertips. It was encouraging to him that his trusty wand, which had served him faithfully for as long as he could remember, would follow him wherever he went, even into death.

As Draco prepared to step off into oblivion, a sudden blackness in the river caught his eye, and he paused. Something wide and dark, a gaping hole of sorts, was opening up in the river directly beneath him. What in the world could it be? Curious, he leaned over farther to get a closer look.

He leaned over a bit too far. Draco lost his balance, and his weakened grip slipped from the cable as he toppled forward. He cried out as he tumbled directly into the black hole beneath him—but his voice was abruptly cut off when he was swallowed up by the darkness there. After he disappeared, the hole closed itself up without a trace, leaving the Thames to crawl slowly along as if nothing had happened.

Back on the bridge, a grey, balding rat with a silvery paw had hidden itself behind a cable and had been watching the entire scene. He was a nearsighted rat, however, and so he had not noticed the hole in the river—he merely assumed that Draco had fallen into the Thames as would normally be expected. The lack of a splash did surprise Peter Pettigrew; but then, he caught himself missing so many things these days. Ah, the wonders of aging.

The rat shook itself and turned away from the Thames, scampering back to the end of the bridge. It was time to report to his master of his findings. The Dark Lord would be pleased to hear that the last of the Malfoy line was finally dead.


	2. Not So Merry Christmas

Magic will be created when an unconventional person comes to stay.—Fortune Cookie

* * *

It was Christmas Day of 2007, and I was in the depths of a depression.

Why, you ask?

Because the two people who had taught me the meaning of Christmas joy, the two people who meant the entire world to me—in short, my parents—were dead.

Just two weeks earlier, my parents had been running late to a friend's holiday party. The worst blizzard of the year had finished the night before, leaving a foot of snow behind; and rather than risk the highway traffic into Minneapolis, my parents decided on taking a deserted country road as a shortcut.

They never made it to the party.

The police report described how their car must have slipped on a patch of black ice not thirty miles from our house and careened into a tree at highway speed. My parents were killed almost instantly. The car burst into flames an hour or two later; and the resulting fire attracted the attention of the lone farmer living on that stretch of road. Once firefighters came to put out the blaze, they discovered the charred remains of two people inside.

Strangely enough, I had been feeling uneasy within an hour of my parents leaving home; and I was understandably worried when they didn't come back at the time they had promised. I tried to calm myself down—maybe they decided to spend the night in the city—but nothing really worked. When they still weren't home by mid-morning the next day, I called their friend's house to find that my parents had never arrived at their destination. After many frantic phone calls to the police station, I finally learned that my parents had died—most likely, at the exact time my intuition had started to bother me.

I don't remember how I finished out those last weeks of school before Winter Break. Everything passed by in such a blur. Teachers and friends would mutter their condolences to me wherever I went. I just stumbled from home to school, from class to class, from school to home. Surprisingly, the state allowed me to live by myself although I was only seventeen: my parents had no other relations left on the planet, and they had willed me the house and enough money for a person to live off of for the next several years.

I was alone, all alone in the world. And never did it hurt more than on that Christmas Day.

I stood at the edge of the large pond behind our house—_my_ house—at dawn of Christmas morning. The weather was pure Minnesotan, cold and grey with a one hundred percent chance of frozen precipitation. I would have considered the wintry sunrise over the pond to be beautiful, if it weren't for my present state of mind. I was without a coat, but the cold wind didn't bother me yet.

And if I got my will together soon, it would never bother me again.

I wanted to die. Badly. I couldn't bear the loneliness anymore. The pain, the grief, the emptiness—it was just too much for me to take. I wanted to see my parents again, spend eternity with them; and I, a most impatient and impetuous girl, did not have the patience to wait a lifetime for the opportunity.

The pond, I knew, got progressively deeper as one got farther from the shore until the water was about waist-high. That was when the pond floor dropped off into a wide and deep trench that spanned the majority of the pond. When I was young, I had dropped a fishing line into the trench from the safety of a boat we had; the water level measured nigh on thirty feet in the deepest part. My parents had always forbidden me to swim in that part of the pond, for fear that I might cramp and disappear there forever.

It would be the perfect place, I figured, for me to drown myself.

And that was why I was shivering at sunrise on the shore of the pond. I was trying to get myself to walk into the pond, but my legs wouldn't let me. It seemed like my mind's survival instincts would not allow me to die knowingly.

After several more minutes of internal struggle, my teeth started chattering as well. If I couldn't find the courage to drown myself in the pond, at least I would kill myself of exposure.

_You're being ridiculous, Estella,_ I chided myself. _Come on! Pull yourself together like a true Bonavideo and get the hell into the water!_

My bare feet slowly inched their way into the water until I was ankle-deep in the pond. The iciness of the water made me wince. It took me another minute before I could find the will to continue into the pond. I took one step, paused, then another. This would take a very long time, it seemed.

That was when it happened.

I heard a tearing sound from overhead and just behind, followed by the sound of someone screaming at the top of his lungs. I whirled around—just in time to see a man fall from the sky onto the ground about ten feet behind me with a loud thump. The screaming stopped when the man hit the ground; I assumed he'd been knocked out by the impact.

I sighed and began to slosh my way out of the icy pond. Suicide would have to wait for a better day.

The man turned out to be young, probably no older than me, and thin to the point of disappearing. His dirty blond hair fell almost to his shoulders; he was covered in mud and grime. But there was no denying it: he was definitely handsome. He would have made all the girls at school swoon in his wake if he hadn't been so thin—or so filthy.

What really got my attention was what he was wearing. His clothes were tattered rags of filth, just like everything else about him, but I could still tell that they had once been "magical robes" one could find in a costume store.

Probably some homeless nutcase with a penchant for _Harry Potter,_ I thought. How he had seemingly fallen out of the sky was another matter for debate, however. What, had a gust of wind picked him up, Dorothy-style, only to drop him in my backyard? Not likely—although, with his frame, I wasn't saying that it was impossible.

As I mused over these thoughts, this young man stirred. He groaned, then spoke without opening his eyes or moving. "Oh, Merlin, my back hurts." His voice was weak, but he had a cultured British accent that would put even the host of "Masterpiece Theatre" to shame. Some HP fan this was.

"No wonder," I said, still standing over him with my arms crossed. "How far did you fall to get here, anyway?"

He opened his eyes at my voice, and I found myself staring into the most intensely grey eyes I had ever seen. They were beautiful, really; but I didn't have much time to register it, as his next actions surprised me too much to think.

I saw his face contort—with fear? pain? hatred?—as he struggled to stand upright. He finally managed, after much heave ho. He was breathing heavily now, but the strange look in his eyes hadn't left him. "You!" he gasped. He started backing away, like some rodent before a gigantic cat.

"Me, what?" I asked, frankly puzzled. Surely my hair wasn't that bad in the morning?

He sneered at me and continued to back off. "Don't play games with me, Potter. Decided to change your sex, did you? Think it would fool the Dark Lord? Trust me, it's as transparent as glass. You still look like the same arrogant prat you always were."

Definitely a nutcase, I thought, and even more than most. All right, it's true that I have black hair and green eyes; but what could one expect from a girl of British and Spanish descent? Besides, even the most ardent HP fans of my friends would never hold a conversation like this with me, not even in jest. It was time to straighten this stranger out on more than a few things.

"First of all," I said dangerously as I advanced on this rude intruder, who backed away even farther, "you're trespassing on my property. I should really force you off, but I'm not going to do that yet. Secondly, I have never laid eyes on you in all my life, and nothing I could ever do would warrant such inappropriate comments as yours. Finally, I really think you need to have your head checked, because every fan of _Harry Potter,_ myself included, admits that it can't exist."

The man looked like I had just slapped him in the face. He stopped trying to back away and sputtered, "Fine—fine, if you're not Potter, then—how do all you _Muggles_ know about our kind?" He spat out the word "Muggles" as if it was as filthy as himself.

"Through the _Harry Potter_ series, of course." I sighed and rolled my eyes heavenward. Lord, did this one need help. Maybe I should just call the Minneapolis Insane Asylum and have done with it. "There are seven books in all, and the seventh one came out last July. All by J.K. Rowling, all on the National Bestsellers' List—all _works of fiction._"

The man's only response was to shake his head in complete disbelief.

I was starting to lose patience with the fellow. I leaned in until I was inches away from the man's face. "_Harry Potter doesn't exist._ Magic doesn't exist. Hogwarts doesn't exist. They're all figments of our imagination, just a part of some best-selling book series that the whole world is raving about. Including you, obviously, although most people don't go to the point of believing that it's _real._"

The man stared at me for a long time. "So, you're telling me that Harry Potter doesn't exist."

"Glad you caught on to that part."

"How about Ron Weasley? Hermione Granger? Albus Dumbledore?"

"I told you, none of them are real! None! Not Harry, not his friends, not even—" I paused, trying to think of a character. It had been a while since I had read _Half-Blood Prince,_ and for some odd reason my parents had forbidden me to read _Deathly Hallows_ until I was eighteen.

But the man finished my sentence for me. "Not even Draco Malfoy?"

I was about to fling back a retort when I noticed the faint smirk he was giving me. I stopped and studied him over again. Grey eyes, the same hue as the storm clouds above me. Hair that must have been platinum blonde at one time, if it weren't for the mud covering it all. That self-satisfied, hateful sneer he had flashed at me earlier. It all fell into place, all in one second.

_Shit._ Never say never, I suppose.

There was only one thing I wanted to check, just to be sure. I grabbed the man's bony wrist before he could stop me and pushed back the sleeve of what had once been robes. I froze when I saw the black tattoo there, the snake tongue wriggling out of a leering skull. I blinked rapidly, hoping that it was just a trick of the eye; but the Dark Mark remained on his arm.

I looked up—this Draco was several inches taller than I—and stared back at him. They were truly mesmerizing, his grey eyes were. Releasing his arm, I said quietly, "You're really Draco, aren't you?"

He nodded.

My throat felt like sandpaper now. "And—magic? Is it—for real?"

Draco pulled out what must have been his wand, a sleek stick of wood about a foot long. He pointed it at the ground next to him and muttered some words; instantly, an array of crocuses burst into full bloom around his feet.

I smiled. Who would have expected those gentle flowers to come from such a menacing Death Eater? Maybe all those fanfictions I had been reading were right; maybe there _was_ a soft side to Draco Malfoy.

My smile faded as Draco was seized with a fit of violent, hacking coughs that doubled him over. He would have collapsed if I hadn't grabbed his arm and kept him on his feet. That was when I realized how cold it actually was: both he and I were barefoot, and my own feet were beginning to tingle from the cold. Not to mention that what had been his robes were a lot less thick than my winter sweater and jeans.

When his coughing finally subsided, I let him have a moment's respite before tugging at his arm. "Come on," I said, giving him a friendly smile. "Let's get inside before we both freeze to death. I think there's going to be a _lot_ of explaining to do."


	3. Revelations

After I had led Draco inside the house and to the nearest bathroom to clean/warm himself up, the first place I went was to my parents' bedroom. I hadn't let myself near there since the day they died, but I needed to get in there now to find some men's clothes for this newcomer. As I rummaged through my father's side of the closet, I steeled myself as the musky smell from his clothes washed over me, bringing back memories of better days.

My father and mother, sitting together on the porch and staring out at the starry night sky, with me cuddled snugly at their feet. My father, his dark hair blowing in the breeze, riding a bicycle with me on a rare warm day. My mother, looking at me with loving jade eyes as I recounted my perfect score on the state assessment test.

God, it was too much! I tried to push those thoughts out of my head until I had found some suitable clothes—a grey shirt, a green sweater, grey slacks. It wasn't until I had laid out the clothes in front of the bathroom for Draco to see that I realized what color combination I had chosen.

Slytherin house colors, all the way. I would have laughed if I wasn't feeling so nostalgic.

I went to the kitchen and began preparing breakfast. Pancakes and syrup were fine with me; I didn't know if Draco was used to Midwestern Muggle fare, but he'd have to learn. As the pan sizzled on the stove, I started to wonder about my new guest. How had he gotten here? Could he get back? What installment had he come from? The questions kept coming, faster and faster. Did he even come from a book? Was the whole "Harry Potter" story for real? Does Voldemort still exist? Is there a magical community out there somewhere? What is this all supposed to mean?

I shook my head to clear my thoughts and continued cooking. They say that time and patience always gives answers. But the latter quality is severely lacking in me.

As I was piling the finished pancakes onto a platter, I heard a shuffling noise behind me. I turned to find Draco standing in the doorway, wearing what had once been my father's clothes. The shower he had taken improved his looks quite a bit, although he was still far too emaciated. His wand stuck out of the pocket of his slacks, a reminder to me of who he was and where he came from. Those Slytherin colors certainly suited him to a tee. I thought the grey clothes made his eyes that much more vivid. And that faint smile on his lips was enough to make anyone's heart melt—like mine did in that moment.

"It sure smells good." His voice was still a little raspy, but mellow and deep.

I flashed him a smile. "Come and sit down." As he nearly collapsed into a chair at the breakfast table, I carried over the platter and a pitcher of maple syrup and set it right in front of him. I could have laughed at the disbelief in his face. "I made you breakfast," I said. "Tuck in."

He didn't need urging twice. I swear to high heaven, even the jocks at school couldn't eat as fast. "Hey, leave some for me, too!" I joked as I sat down across from him.

He looked up and swallowed the large mouthful he had just shoveled in. "Sorry, I—I haven't eaten anything this good in a while," he mumbled.

"What, even breakfast made by house-elves doesn't compare to this?" That surprised me. My cooking was never all that good, but at least it's edible.

He flushed—something I wasn't expecting from such a pale person. "I don't want to talk about it," he mumbled. Then, something came to him. "How did you know about that?" he asked, stopping his eating for a moment to stare at me.

"Know about what?"

"About house-elves. That my family would have them. About—about our world in general. Are you a Squib?"

"What? No! I already told you, the books—wait." I couldn't tell him things from the series because that could change his future, if he got back to his world—unless said things had already occurred, at which point it didn't matter anymore. I needed to know what book he was from… "How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

"What year is it now?"

He gave me a look that clearly questioned my sanity. "It's 1997, of course."

I felt my blood run cold. _His time was ten years behind mine._ "It's not," I tried to keep my voice composed. "It's actually the year 2007."

"Are you serious?" He stared. "How the hell did I get to the future?"

"I don't know, but…" I jumped up from the table and ran to the living room. I scanned the bookshelves lining one wall until I found what I was looking for. I came back with a decently-sized book in my hands as Draco was finishing up his plate. I laid the book in front of him, front cover on top, and I watched him grow pale again as he read the title.

_Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. Year One._

He glanced up at me. "This is the story about us?" he croaked.

I nodded. "There's one for every year. I've only read up to your sixth year—which you've finished already, I assume?"

He didn't answer my question, just ran his fingers over the embossed lettering of the title. "What's the Sorcerer's Stone? I don't remember hearing about that in first year."

I frowned. He probably hadn't, since "the Sorcerer's Stone" was an Americanized version of the original title. "Does the Philosopher's Stone sound familiar?" I asked.

"Oh! The alchemic one? Yes, of course."

"That would be the same as the Sorcerer's Stone—we just call it that in the States, for some reason I'll never understand."

"The States? Do you mean—" I could see the comprehension dawning on him. "I'm in _a future America?!_"

I nodded. "I'm afraid so, Draco."

He shook his head. "I thought your accent was strange." A pause. Then, "What am I like—in the book?"

I didn't know how to reply. "Well," I began. "The books are in the third person, but they're from Harry's point-of-view, so—"

He grimaced. "I get the picture. I'm a rich spoiled brat of a bully, aren't I?"

"Umm…" I'd rather let that question slide. "Most of my friends don't think so."

He looked at me curiously. "What's that supposed to mean?"

I pulled my chair closer to him and sat down before answering. "You're portrayed as a really arrogant, selfish prat from day one, I'll admit. But, after the Half-Blood Prince, some of my friends, me included, started seeing you a bit differently—we speculated that even the seemingly evil Malfoy had a good side to him, perhaps."

"The Half-Blood Prince?"

"Oh—sorry, I'm going by titles again. I meant, your sixth year."

"You mean," he looked shocked, "after I killed Dumbledore, people started thinking I was a good guy?"

"But that's the whole point. You _didn't_ kill Dumbledore. You tried, but you couldn't. You lowered your wand after he offered you protection, didn't you? Well, most of us took that as a sign of your good side coming out after years of dormancy."

He stared at the tabletop and didn't answer, clearly musing over my statement.

I hesitated, then reached out and touched the back of his hand. "We weren't wrong, I hope?"

He just shook his head again. "I hope not." A pause, before he added darkly, "I just would hate to make the same mistake my parents did…"

"Oh." A silence fell between us. I was curious to know what mistake his parents had made, but I could tell from his dangerous look that it was a touchy subject. I finally got the courage up to ask him, "What are you planning to do now?"

He shrugged. I could sense the trouble in his eyes before he answered. "I don't know. I mean, I'm in a different country, a different time. I don't know how I got here, or how I'm going to get back." He let out a nervous laugh. "Hell, I might even be stuck here forever."

_Not like that would be all bad,_ I thought before mentally slapping myself. What in the world? Did I actually want Draco to stay? No, Estella, please don't answer that. I brought myself back to the real world, where Draco was still talking.

"…might even have to break my wand and become a Muggle," he was saying, gazing out the breakfast window at the grey sky. "If I have to survive somehow—"

"I won't let it come to that!" I blurted out. He stopped and stared at me. Damn! I felt the heat rising in my face as I stammered out, "I mean—you don't—you don't have to give up magic to live here. You can stay here—at my house—as long as you need to."

He continued to stare at me, his grey eyes making me even more uncomfortable each passing second. "Malfoys never accept charity," he said stiffly. "As much as I appreciate your offer, I'm afraid my pride won't let me accept it."

"Then don't think of it as charity," I retorted. "You won't survive if you go out by yourself in the middle of this God-forsaken Minnesota winter, and you know it."

Draco flushed again, shrugged, and moved to get up from the table. I beat him to it and grabbed him by the arm, right where the Dark Mark was. He winced as I held him down, but I ignored it for the time being. I couldn't understand why, myself, but a part of me was yearning to have him stay.

"Listen," I pleaded with him, a desperate thought popping into my head. "If you teach me to do magic, will you stay?"

His eyes widened. "What?" he breathed. "You're—you're a Muggle! You've always been a Muggle! You always _will_ be a Muggle! It would never work!"

I smirked. "Well, a job that'll never be finished is a good enough excuse for you to stay as long as you need to, isn't it?"

He stared at me for a long moment before throwing his head back and laughing deeply. "If you went to Hogwarts, you should've been in Slytherin," he said when he finally stopped. "You're the cleverest, sneakiest girl I've met in a long while." His grey eyes ensnared me again. "By the way, I don't think you've told me your name yet."

I had to remind myself to breathe as I drowned in his gaze. "Estella—it's Estella," I whispered as I released his arm from where I'd been holding him down.

"Thank you, Estella," he said just as quietly as we both rose to clear the breakfast table.

* * *

After breakfast, I excused myself from the house to run some errands in town, leaving Draco to rest and amuse himself in the living room. I was gone for a couple of hours, and I came back with my arms full of grocery sacks to find that he had discovered my family's photo albums and was flipping through them while reclining on the couch.

"They don't move," was the first thing he said to me as I thumped the paper bags onto the kitchen counter.

"What in the world—oh. Well. They're Muggle photos, what else did you expect?"

"Um, I wouldn't know what _else_ to expect. Are these your parents?" He held up a loose picture without moving from the couch, so I came closer to see what he was referring to. It turned out to be a family picture from when I was in elementary school. Mum and Dad were hugging each other, with me sandwiched in the middle, and we were all positively beaming at the camera.

"Yes," I said softly, my heart wrenching painfully at the happy scene portrayed before me.

He twisted his head to look at my face; my voice must have given my feelings away. "Are they…" he started to ask, but I cut him off.

"They're dead, yes. Car accident. Two weeks ago—" My voice broke there, and I slowly sank to the ground beside the couch as my eyes grew misty again. I picked at a loose thread on the rug while I tried to blink the tears away.

"Oh." There was a pause. "I'm sorry…" Draco then muttered something incoherent.

"Beg your pardon?"

"I said, we're the same, then." Draco continued to flip through the photo album nonchalantly, but I saw that he was blinking as rapidly as me.

"What?" His parents were dead? They were still alive in HBP…

"Look, I don't want to talk about it!" he suddenly snapped and slammed the photo album shut, letting it slide to the floor with a thud. He was about to get off the couch, but stopped when I spoke.

"Are you really sure about that?"

Our eyes met. I could see the tears attempting to spill from his grey eyes; and he must have seen the mist in my green ones, because he leaned back into the sofa cushions with a deep sigh.

"I'm…sorry," he said after a long pause. "I—I didn't mean to…"

"S'okay," I mumbled and dropped my eyes to the carpet. "I know what it feels like—"

"But you don't!" His vehement reply surprised me into looking up at him again. He was flushed and shaking with anger. "You've never watched your mother be tortured to death by her own sister! You've never witnessed your father have his soul sucked out of him on the orders of his own master! You've never been turned out on to the streets of London to die because the Dark Lord is downright ticked that you ruined his best spy's cover!" He stopped, breathless from his tirade, before adding grimly, "Oh, Estella, you have no idea." Then he rolled over and buried his face in the cushions.

"Oh, my God…" My hands were over my mouth in horror. "You've got to be kidding me…"

"I wish I were," was his muffled reply. "I wish I were…"

I slowly got up and moved closer to the couch, where Draco was lying on his stomach. His shoulders were shaking, and so I reached out and rested my hand on his back as comfortingly as I could. I could feel him tense suddenly, then relax just as quickly under my touch. "I'm so sorry, Draco," I murmured to the air.

After a few moments like that, he rolled over again and turned to look at me. His face was now streaked with the tears he had been trying to hide in the cushions. "Me, too," he said in the most heart-breaking way imaginable.

Something in me snapped; and before I could stop myself, I had thrown my arms around him in a sisterly embrace. Both of us were sobbing quietly as we let all the emotion from our parents' deaths flow out. I could feel his tears soaking into my sweater, and I was sure that I was doing likewise on his shoulder.

But it didn't matter. It simply felt good to know then, as cheesy as it would sound to anyone else, that we could comfort each other through our shared loss.

After what must have been some minutes like this, we pulled away and smiled at each other through the tears we no longer needed to hide. There were only two words that were needed then, two words that we whispered to each other in unison.

"Thank you."


	4. Technological Magic

The rest of Winter Break passed uneventfully between Draco and I.

Well, it was _mostly_ uneventful. After all, how normal can life be for a Muggle when a wizard walks into her life?

The first occurrence that rocked our world was Draco's discovery of the computer. Being a pureblooded wizard, he had never seen a computer before; and so, I walked into the study one afternoon to find him circling our family computer cautiously, much like a hunter circling a freshly-wounded elephant. He didn't notice my entrance—nor did he notice my attempts at stifling my laughter.

"Draco, it's not going to bite you," I managed to snigger from my position in the doorway.

He looked up, surprised, and the expression on his face was enough to make me break my poker face and send me into paroxysms of laughter. He scowled at my chortling. "What, in the name of Merlin, is this Muggle contraption?" he snarled.

"Surely they have computers in your day and age?" I quipped as I came further into the study.

"What's a come-pew-ter?" he asked, his brow furrowing in consternation.

"Well, look who didn't pay attention in Muggle Studies! Ten points from Slytherin," I laughed. It felt so good to tease Draco like this; it was something like the day-to-day banter I used to exchange with my parents.

"Please, just shut your mouth and tell me," he growled.

"Have patience, my friend, and you shall learn all." And with that, I stepped over to the computer and pushed its power button.

Draco jumped back in fright as the computer began to hum. I switched on the monitor, and he winced at the popping sound that accompanied it. And when the speakers, already set for full volume, blasted the Windows booting melody, the shocked expression on his face was priceless.

_For everything else, there's MasterCard,_ I couldn't help but think.

"A computer," I began in a scholarly tone while trying not to laugh again, "is, in essence, nothing more than a very advanced numbers machine. The people who program these computers use a code of numbers that the computer translates into a function, a process the machine goes through that makes the computer work the way it does."

"And what exactly does this come-pew-ter thing do?"

"Almost anything, really. There are programs for writing, creating pictures, creating visual presentations, playing games—oh, and the best part is the Internet." The desktop was now visible, and I double-clicked the browser icon.

"The_what??_"

"The Internet. Also known as the World Wide Web or the Interweb. It's a system of mass information transfer that we Muggles use to communicate with everyone else. Almost magical, you might say. . . here, I'll show you." The Mozilla Firefox browser had finished loading, and I proceeded to go to a certain webpage that I knew Draco would find interesting.

As we waited for the page to load, Draco leaned in closer to read the address bar. His musky smell, so close to my father's and yet so different, nearly sent me reeling. He turned to me, a strange look on his face.

"Harry Potter Fanfiction?" he asked. "What the hell is that supposed to be?"

"What does it sound like to you? Ah, here we go." The log-in screen had appeared, and I entered my penname and password.

Draco studied the design on the top of the page while he waited. "Is that supposed to be Hogwarts? Because it's a pretty shabby representation," he sniffed.

"We Muggles have never seen Hogwarts before, remember," I countered. "Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes, Harry Potter fanfiction—it's all the stories we come with about your world, separate from the canon version J.K. Rowling published. I only started recently, but I've already made some good author friends on the site."

By this point, my account page was on the screen, and I clicked on the Favorites link. A moment later, a long list of my favorite authors and stories were scrolling down the screen.

"I've noticed that a lot of the authors specialize in certain pairings of characters, while some like to be more diverse about their topics," I said, beginning to point out certain of my favorite authors with my mouse. "Take DarkFaerii, for example—she sticks with Marauder era, mostly, but with a whole variety of characters. Good writer, that one."

"Marauder. . .?"

"The era of Harry's parents. And yours, too, for that matter. It's a long story."

"I'd suspect so," Draco muttered.

"Here's akeyana," I continued. "Very funny writer, she really knows how to make a person laugh. She's done Marauder era, too, but also a post-Hogwarts fic. . ." At the confused look on Draco's face, I added, "You know, after your class has graduated."

"Oh."

"And here's one of my all-time favorites: lupamannera." I clicked on her name, and her author's page flashed on the screen. Draco's eyes widened at the sheer length of it: well over a dozen entries. "She absolutely adores Remus Lupin, and all but a few of her many stories are about him. She's an _excellent_ author. . . knows how to work angst and fluff equally well. . . but her stories are mostly angst. Won a competition on the site just recently, she's that talented."

"Did you say—_Remus Lupin?_ As in, the _werewolf??_" he sputtered.

"The very same," I said solemnly. "And don't you dare say anything bad about him, lest I e-mail dear lupa immediately and have her come smack you into next week for the insult."

Draco, thankfully, refrained from saying more, but merely shook his head instead. "Any others you'd like to tell me about?"

"Well. . ." I went back a page and checked over my list of favorites. "Here's Kyleigh, specializes in the Founders, sometimes with Harry, sometimes without. . . secretwitch, she does a whole variety of stories, all very good. . . or greengecko, she's done some excellent Harry and Snape portrayals—"

"WHAT?!" Draco looked positively horrified. "Please tell me you're joking."

"Not at all. Actually, a caring Snape isn't all too uncommon of a character. . . strangely enough, since the book's always made him out to be a slimy git. But you'd never guess who's written more anti-canon than Snape, even."

"Who?" he asked, curious.

"You."

"_Me??_"

"Indeed. One of my favorite authors, MajiKat, specializes in Draco/Hermione fics—" At this, he gagged loudly. "What, doesn't sound appealing to you?"

"Me and the Mudblood? Not exactly." Eager to shift topics, he asked, "So, what's your specialty?"

I blanched. Not a particularly comfortable topic, considering the person I was talking to. I hoped my face wasn't as red as it felt. It must have been red enough to get Draco's suspicions up, as he repeated his question, with a little more bite this time.

"Um. . ." I hedged, averting my gaze. "I just started a few months ago, like I said, so I really haven't had much time to specialize—"

"It's me, isn't it?" he interrupted. "You write about me."

My shoulders slumped. Man, was he quick on the uptake. "Yes. From various viewpoints and with different pairings. . . but mostly about you, yes."

"I see." I could feel his eyes boring into the back of my head. "Any ulterior motives, then, in asking me to stay?"

My head whipped around at that. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

Draco looked betrayed, insulted even. "Oh, I don't know. . . perhaps you're just keeping me around for observation of some sort?" he drawled insinuatingly. "Just going to make note of everything I say, everything I do, and then going to write about it like you came up with it out of your own pretty head?"

I ran a hand through my hair, frustrated. Why'd he have to take it_that_ way? "Draco. . ."

"You know, you really do look like Potter when you do that."

"It's not what you think!" I snapped. We stared at each other for long moments, the tension building between us.

I exhaled loudly, breaking the spell. "Look," I said, trying to calm my voice down. "Your living here has nothing to do with my writing. In case you don't remember, you were half-starved and freezing when you arrived. I felt obliged to let you stay here. Okay?"

"If you were so _obliged_ to have me here, I'd be more than obliged to leave now," Draco said forcefully and began to move away.

Again, I was too fast for him. I grabbed his arm and yanked him back towards me. He faced me momentarily, glowering, before turning his head away. But I didn't care.

"Listen, I—I—you make me feel safer when you're here," I confessed, my voice shaking slightly. I'd never let my composure crack this much in front of anyone else, ever. "I haven't felt this normal since my parents died. Being an only child doesn't help much—there's never anyone your own age you can talk to about things like this. But with you here, and you being someone who's gone through the same things I have, it's been so much easier to cope with the loss."

Draco still looked away. Impulsively, I reached up with my free hand and turned his head so that he was forced to look at me. Our eyes met. His grey eyes had a sullen, injurious look in them, one that I knew I was guilty of causing.

"Please, Draco," I said softly. "Just believe me. I need you here—to help me keep my sanity, at the very least."

Silence rose between us. Finally, he nodded, then pulled his arm away from my grasp and swept out of the den with a huff. I took that to mean his assent.

Without another word, I logged off the Internet and turned off the computer before leaving the study as well. Probably not my best idea, showing him the site; but I soon discovered that other things could throw him into an even worse miff—and with less reaction time to boot.

* * *

The day after New Year's—a holiday neither Draco nor I felt like celebrating with much fanfare—was when the second disturbance in the Bonavideo-Malfoy household occurred.

After the computer incident, a wavering truce had risen between us, one rift with tense silence and averted glances. That evening, we were together in the living room, neither of us saying a word to the other. Draco was on his stomach on the rug before the crackling fireplace, flipping through my copy of "The Sorcerer's Stone." I was sitting on the couch and knitting in a very grandmotherly fashion, an overflowing basket of yarn resting by my feet.

To my surprise, Draco closed the book with a _snap!_ and broke the silence first.

"Are you ready?" he asked me.

I looked up, confused. "Ready for what?"

"Are you ready to learn some magic?" He pulled out his wand with a glimmer in his eyes.

I stared at him. "You're kidding, right?"

"Not at all."

"You feeling okay? No fever or anything?"

"Ha. Very funny." Suddenly, my knitting leaped out of my hands and up into the air, seemingly of its own volition. I jumped up to grab at it, but it kept rising just out of my reach. Of course, it never helps that I've always been on the small side. I looked over to see Draco with his wand aimed at my knitting, a small grin on his face.

"You won't be able to get it," he explained. "Not unless I feel like it."

I gritted my teeth in annoyance. "And I thought you're the one who said Muggles couldn't learn magic."

He shrugged. "Doesn't matter—gives me something to do, at least. I'm not like Granger; I can't stand reading ten hours a day."

"You're not like me either, then. I love reading." Regardless of my griping, I was interested in seeing how magic worked. So I came over and stood next to him.

"That's better." With a flick of his wand, my knitting dropped back onto the couch. Another flick, and one of the sofa cushions flew towards him. He caught the cushion in mid-air and set it on the floor a few feet away from us.

"We'll start with one of the first-year spells, the Hover Charm I was just using. Since I was just reading about it in that book of yours, I'm assuming you know which one I mean?"

"Wingardium Leviosa?" I asked.

"Right." He incanted the charm, and the sofa cushion rose several feet into the air and remained there for several seconds before dropping back to the floor.

He handed the wand to me. "Now, you try it."

"Swish and flick," I responded automatically as I took the wand. When my fingers made contact with the wood, a sharp tingling ran up my arm and stopped at my shoulder. This, and the unnatural warmth of the wand in my hand, surprised me and made me pause for a moment.

Draco must have mistaken my hesitation for insecurity, since he said quickly, "Don't worry, almost no one gets it right on their first try." His expression darkened, and he added, "Well, with the exception of that bloody Granger, of course."

I barely heard him; my mind was so intently focused on the spell I wanted to cast that I had no room for anything else. I felt strange, holding that wand. I felt powerful, all-mighty, and—what scared me the most—whole. It was like a part of me had been missing for the first seventeen years of my life. . . and I had never noticed it until I stumbled across the missing piece. That would have to shatter_anyone's_ self-confidence.

After many moments of silence, I raised Draco's wand and executed what I hoped was a proper swish-and-flick motion. "_Wingardium Leviosa!_"

I expected nothing to happen, for the cushion to remain unmoved. At best, maybe the cushion would have risen an inch or so off the floor. But what actually happened took my breath away.

The cushion slammed into the nine foot high ceiling of the living room with a loud thump, raining dust and loose plaster everywhere. I let the wand drop from my hand in shock, and the cushion fell down as well, looking rather flattened from its impact with the ceiling.

I couldn't stop myself from grinning broadly. Amazing! I could do magic! Real magic, too, not just some of those cheap parlor tricks that magicians perform. And the rush of energy that accompanied the spell was unlike anything I had ever felt in my life. I loved it.

I turned to Draco, still grinning, and found him staring at me with a truly venomous expression. It was enough to make me take a step back, my smile gone. I was terrified of what he might do to me; at that point, he looked ready to commit anything short of murder.

We spent a few moments like this before he turned on his heel and wordlessly stormed out of the living room. I remained standing there, too shocked to move, listening to the kitchen door open and slam shut again. Minutes passed before I could find my voice again.

"Draco?" I called softly. No answer.

"Draco!" A little louder this time, but still nothing.

I tugged at my hair with a frustrated sigh. I had absolutely no idea what had elicited such a reaction from him. I exceeded his (and my) expectations, and he had to blow a fuse. Surely, wouldn't he be happy that I can do magic? So that he wouldn't be alone in a world of Muggles? Why would he be so angry about it?

Mechanically, I picked up Draco's wand from where I had dropped it on the floor and slid it into the pocket of my jeans for safekeeping before walking over to the kitchen. Sure enough, the back screened door was just slightly ajar. Draco must have gone outside—into the freezing Minnesotan night—without a coat.

Quickly, I went to the hall closet and grabbed two coats, mine and an old one of my father's, before stepping out the kitchen door into the bitter night air. The nearly-full moon cast a pale glow from the clear heavens, a perfect night for stargazing. Patches of old snow were scattered on the ground; from them, I could trace Draco's footsteps into the dusky woods surrounding our house as I slipped my parka over my shoulders.

I followed his tracks for a good twenty yards before finding him. He was sitting on a tree stump, completely motionless and staring at the ground, his back towards me. My feet crunched on the mixture of old snow and dead leaves as I came closer, but he made no move to acknowledge my presence. We stayed that way in silence for a while.

Finally, I cleared my throat. "You don't have a coat on, Draco," I said, stating the obvious.

No response.

I tried again. "Aren't you cold?"

Still no answer.

Annoyed now, I circled the tree trunk so that I was now facing him. He continued to ignore me, staring at the ground as if it was infinitely more interesting than my presence.

"Draco, what—"

"Just get away from me, you filthy little Mudblood!" Draco snarled without looking up.

His words stung me like a blow. But they probably didn't sting as much as the slap across the face I immediately gave him.

That certainly got his attention. His head shot up in a flash, and he shot me an angry glare with one hand pressed protectively on his injured cheek. "How dare you—" he began angrily, but I cut him off.

"No, how dare _you!_" I retorted, throwing the spare coat over my shoulder and crossing my arms. "After all I've done for you since you came here, without asking for anything in return, the only thanks I get is being called a _filthy little Mudblood_? I think you're the one who owes an apology here, Mister Pureblood Elitist!"

The staring match between us seemed to last forever before Draco finally gave up. He dropped his eyes to the ground and mumbled some incoherent words that I hoped was something remotely close to an apology.

I sighed and plopped myself down, Indian style, on a patch of dried leaves and branches in front of Draco's stump. "Now, please explain to me why you blew a gasket back there."

"You lied to me," he muttered, so softly I thought I'd misheard him.

"Beg your pardon?"

"I said, you effing _lied_ to me!" His voice rose to a shout, and he pushed himself up from the tree stump to tower over me, glowering. "You said you were a Muggle! How was I to know you'd done magic before? You made me feel like a complete idiot back there—I couldn't even get that spell right until my tenth try!"

"What the—I never lied to anyone!" It was my turn to jump up and start bellowing, the spare coat long forgotten on the forest floor. "I've grown up for the last seventeen years as a Muggle, and I had no idea that magic existed until you came here, much less picked up a wand before! And what the hell does that have to do with you and your overstuffed ego??"

Draco froze, ogling me. "You've never done magic before?" he asked slowly.

"Aren't you quick on the uptake?"

"Not even accidentally? Never done anything when you were really angry or really happy?"

"For the love of God, Draco, what part of 'no' do you not understand?_I—am—a Muggle!_"

Suddenly, Draco swore loudly and turned away again to give the tree stump a heavy kick. It was a good thing that the shoes he was wearing were thick; otherwise, I was pretty sure he'd have been screaming in pain.

"Watch your language, mister," I snapped at his back.

He turned on me, his expression cold. "Do you realize how much magic you have?" he hissed.

"What?"

"You packed more spell power into that levitation charm than I've ever seen before." He strode over, until our faces were inches away. I was too taken aback by his words to move away. "If you were in my world, at Hogwarts, you'd have been the most powerful witch in Britain by now. And if you say you've never had a case of accidental magic before this. . ." He shook his head. "I'm surprised you haven't spontaneously combusted yet."

"That's—comforting," I said when I found my voice again. "But you still haven't explained why you were so bloody upset a few minutes ago."

Draco studied his feet before answering me. "I think—I was jealous," he finally admitted. "I don't know—it was like watching Granger in class all over again, gloating over how she's so much smarter than everyone else. I really hated that about her, that show-off, know-it-all attitude she had all the time. I—I guess I lost control of myself."

I noticed him start to shiver, which made me remember the reason why I had come out to find him in the first place. I picked up Dad's old coat and tossed it to him; he caught it and immediately threw it over his shoulders like a cloak.

"Thanks," he tried to smile a little. "And. . . I'm sorry."

I smiled back and extended my hand. "Apology accepted." We shook on it, his hold tentative, mine affirmative.

Silence filled the gap between us after that as we, uncomfortable, tried to figure out what came next. I eventually focused my gaze on the bright moon that rested just above the bare branches of the trees. It really was a beautiful night.

Next to me, Draco cleared his throat to get my attention. "You know," he said, "I'd be willing to help you learn some more magic. Although," he added with a sheepish laugh, "you probably don't need much of my help anyway. But what I _can_ tell you is what they teach at Hogwarts up through sixth year."

I thought my heart would gallop straight out of my chest and run free through the woods. "You're serious?" I squeaked. "You'd teach _me_—to do magic??"

"Of course. . ." His face broke into a sly grin. "Isn't that what we agreed would be my payment for living here?"

"Well, yes, but—if you mind it that much. . ."

"But I don't mind," he said earnestly. "You just surprised me today—but now I know what to expect from you. . . one hell of a lot."

I laughed. I was glad that we were back to friendly relations again. "When should we start?"

"How does first thing tomorrow sound to you?"

My smile was wiped clean away. _Tomorrow. . ._ "Oh. Crap." I swore under my breath as I remembered. Time had flown far too fast for both of us.

"What? What's wrong?"

"Tomorrow. . . Draco, tomorrow is the first day of school. . ."


	5. School Days

Disclaimer: If you don't believe that I'm not JK Rowling, let me send you my picture. Nothing belongs to me, except for Estella and Dirk and the plot. . . and that's perfectly fine by me.

* * *

Cedar Mills High School was an imposing brick structure located on Main Street, just out of downtown Cedar Mills. The school could easily have been mistaken for a jail of some sort, with its chicken-wired windows and stark façade. Considering the number of juvenile delinquents it housed for the better part of the week, I suppose the description wouldn't have been too far off from the truth.

The morning after our break-up and make-up found Draco and I walking up the sidewalk to the school. We were both bundled up in coats and scarves, but our breaths could still be seen, making little puffs of steam before our path. Draco had offered to carry my heavily-loaded backpack for part of the five-minute walk to school, but I had declined the offer; it was more than possible for a man of his work experience (namely, none) to have a heart attack from attempting to lift any high school student's schoolbag.

"So, let me get this straight," he was saying as we approached the front steps. "The story is that I'm your cousin who's come all the way from Britain to visit you?"

"Precisely. My parents emigrated from Britain when I was fifteen months old, and my mother is entirely British, so we can say that you're my distant maternal cousin of whatever degree."

"And how are you going to explain the fact that I look nothing whatsoever like you?"

"_Distant_ cousin," I emphasized. "Genetics can do amazing things, you know. By the time you're my third cousin, we'd be about as related as we are right now. Meaning, not at all."

"Um, right." He waited until we were in front of the doors of the school to ask me, "By the way, what is genetics?"

I stopped and slowly turned around to face him, my hand still resting on the doorknob. If he said something like that to anyone else, I'd never hear the end of it. "I forgot to mention a couple of things, I think." Draco arched an eyebrow in expectation. "Number One: if you don't know something that you hear or see today, for God's sake, do keep it to yourself until we get home! If word gets out that you're really a wizard from _Harry Potter,_ all hell will literally break loose. . . which leads to Number Two—your new name outside the house is now, officially, Devon Merton."

I smiled sweetly, taking in Draco's stunned expression, before opening the door with a flourish. "Are you ready to start your day at an American high school, my dear cousin Devon?"

Draco, now known as Devon, could only sputter his displeasure as we walked into school.

* * *

"Estella, will you do us the honor of introducing your guest?"

For the fourth time that day, I rose from my seat in the front row, pulling Draco/Devon into standing position alongside of me. We were currently in Physics class, and our teacher Mr. Gundersnach (nicknamed Mr. Guten Nacht by some smart-alecky German student of the class) was already standing before the blackboard, chalk in hand, waiting patiently for me to begin.

"This is my cousin, Devon Merton," I said, just as I had in three earlier classes. "He's here to visit me from his home in Britain, and he was interested in seeing what an American high school is like. So. . . please welcome him here today."

Draco/Devon nodded politely to the class, and I sat down, expecting the response to my announcement to be as minimal as it had been elsewhere. But I had forgotten how hyper my Physics class could be.

"You're from _Britain?!_"

"Cool!"

"Far out!"

"What's it like over there?"

"Are you going to be here for a while?"

"Do you go to boarding school?"

"Are you single?"

"Do you have a FaceBook?"

"One question at a time!" Mr. Gundersnach bellowed over the noise.

Draco/Devon laughed and tossed back his head. His hair was shorter than it was when he had arrived (I had done my best job of cutting it for him); but he still insisted on keeping it medium length, just enough to give him a devil-may-care look that was already sending some of the opposite sex into convulsions of sighing.

"Yes, I'm British," he said, letting his accent roll off his tongue even more than normal. (More sighs from the girls.) "I live in St. Albans, outside of London, but I do attend boarding school for most of the year."

"Eton, Harrow, or Winchester?" asked a friend of mine, a tall young man whose legs looked far too long for his small desk in the back.

"None of them. You've probably never heard of our school, it's so small, and it's located near the Scottish border, fairly close to Edinburgh. But," here Draco/Devon smirked, "I'd say we're loads better academically than what even Eton has to offer."

My friend raised an eyebrow doubtfully but remained silent, casting a questioning glance in my direction. I shrugged my shoulder almost imperceptibly in response. As long as the topic of _Harry Potter_ didn't come up, I didn't care what 'outrageous' things Draco/Devon came up with.

And of course, I had to go jinx myself. One of the heavily made-up girls in the front row, an unabashed HP fan-girl if I ever saw one, had to go and blow it for me. "Oohh, Julia!" she squealed to the girl next to her. "I know who he looks like—it just hit me!"

"Who, Marcie? Who?" Julia asked excitedly.

Marcie attempted to lower her voice, but her answer still came out in a whisper loud enough for the whole class to hear. "_Tom Felton!_"

At this point, Draco/Devon furrowed his eyebrows and made the mistake of asking who Tom Felton was. I was sure I was blushing furiously, as my cheeks felt hot enough to fry an egg over hard in the silence that followed. Finally, Marcie managed to sputter, "You don't know—you don't know who Tom Felton is?? Like, he's the guy who does Draco Malfoy in the _Harry Potter_ movies! He's _sooo_ hot!" Julia let out a heartfelt sigh in agreement.

"Oh." Draco/Devon tried to shrug it off by adding, "Well, I'm not all that interested in _Harry Potter._"

Again, wrong thing to say. "_What?_" Julia gasped in obvious horror. "But—but _Harry Potter's_ got to be the best thing since—"

"ENOUGH!" Mr. Gundersnach shouted. "Question time over! We need to get back to PHYSICS talk here! Honestly, don't you guys want to do better on the final exam? The last midterm was _disappointing,_ to say the least. . ."

With that threat, our hyperactive class settled down and prepared to listen to the day's lecture. I got out my notebook as a matter of course, but Draco's presence kept me from focusing as I normally did. I doodled in the margins of my notebook, barely registering what Mr. Gundersnach said for quite a while.

When I finally managed to snap myself out of my trance, Mr. Gundersnach was holding up a pencil and waving it before us. "See this pencil?" he said. "Now, when I set it on this table in front of me—" which he did, "—it wouldn't be counter to the law of conservation of energy should this pencil leap into the air. There's nothing preventing all the energy in the air to go into the pencil and make it jump up. It's just highly improbable that it should do that rather than, say, rest peacefully on the table like it is right now. Maybe. . . maybe just once in a million years, this pencil will fly into the air of its own accord." His eyes gleamed. "I'd be able to retire happily if I should see it happen, even once. . ."

That struck a chord with me. Sure, it might take a one-in-a-million-year chance for a pencil to defy gravity on Earth using the laws of Newtonian physics—hell, even the laws of quantum mechanics. But with a little bit of _magic_. . . anything is possible.

Mr. Gundersnach continued to talk, unaware of the mischief running through my head. I glanced over at Draco, but he was intently listening to Mr. Gundersnach's lecture. I didn't even know if he had his wand on him, and I sure didn't want to ask him then. The prank I wanted to play required the use of a wand, however, so I was stuck.

Or, did it actually _require_ a wand?

Wandless magic was difficult, if I remembered right from Half-Blood Prince; but that was my only option at the moment. And if I didn't want to be discovered, wordless magic, which was reputed to be even harder than wandless magic, would also be necessary. I just had to be difficult from the start, didn't I?

I closed my eyes and, using the pretense of raising my right hand, waved my index finger at the pencil while screaming the magic words in my head. The sound of the collective gasp from the student body made me open my eyes again.

The normal-looking Dixon Ticonderoga pencil, now two feet above the table, hovered in mid-air for a moment longer before I released the spell, allowing it to clatter back onto the table.

Mr. Gundersnach, along with the rest of the class (Draco notwithstanding), looked as if he had seen a ghost. It took him a full minute by the classroom clock before he found the ability to speak again. "Uh—uh—Estella—did you have—a question?" he stuttered as he saw my still-raised hand.

I slowly lowered it, feeling embarrassed. "No, sir, I—I forgot," I answered lamely.

"Well, then. . ." Mr. Gundersnach dropped into his chair and held his head with both hands, apparently shocked out of his wits. "I think this calls for an early dismissal. . ."

* * *

The moment I walked out of the classroom with the rest of my chattering classmates, all of whom were eager for an early lunch, Draco grabbed my wrist and wordlessly pulled me with him to a far-off cluster of lockers. Upon arrival, I found myself pushed between himself and a locker while he took his wand from his pocket (I guess he had it with him all that time, after all) and proceeded to wave it around for a moment.

"What are you doing?" I managed to ask when he had finished.

"Setting up an anti-Muggle charm," he replied shortly before stowing his wand in his pants again. Sure enough, the few students in that part of the locker bay avoided our corner, much less looked at us. Draco glared at me. "We need to talk—alone."

I gulped. _He knew. . ._ "Draco, I can explain—"

"Is this your first time doing magic without a wand?" he interrupted.

I didn't answer immediately. "Well?" he pressed.

"Yes," I whispered.

"And wordless, too?"

"Yes," even softer than before.

Draco suddenly brought both arms up to rest on the locker on either side of my head, effectively caging me there. "Do you always have to be so bloody special?" he sighed to no one in particular.

"Ex—excuse me?"

Draco leaned closer to me until we were a mere inch away from each other. "You—are—a natural hand-caster," he emphasized the last three words.

"I'm a _what??_"

"A natural hand-caster. Someone who can cast spells with their bare hands—and who has more control over it than they do with a wand." He paused there, but upon seeing the confused look on my face, he continued his explanation. "A wand, you see, is just meant to focus the inner magical core of a wizard or witch outward, to control the flux of power within. But if a wizard can control the magic without any outside help, the wand becomes extraneous and often hurts the magic more than help it." He shook his head before adding, "I think you're the first one since Merlin himself."

I cleared my throat several times before I could say anything. "And what—does this mean—for me—exactly?" I finally stammered.

"Well, you're damn lucky for one thing. . . you don't _need_ to use a wand; in fact, you're probably better off without one. You've got the levitation spell down perfectly now, so I think last night's power surge was just because of the wand. And now I can teach you—"

"Estella!"

A familiar voice (to me) stopped Draco in mid-sentence. He whirled around, and I peered around his shoulder, to find my learned friend from Physics striding over. He was nearly a full head taller than Draco, I discovered when he stopped a foot away from us. Draco pulled back from me quickly at the dangerous look on my friend's face.

My friend stopped glowering at Draco long enough to turn to me. "Estella, is everything all right?" he asked gently.

"Yes, of course, Dirk, but—" I stopped myself before asking Dirk how he had overcome the anti-Muggle charm Draco had set up. "Why are you here?" I hoped the question didn't sound too antagonistic.

"Well, for one thing, it is my locker you're standing against." I twisted my head around to verify; Draco was still too stunned to make any comment. "And for another thing," Dirk continued once I had turned back to look at him, "I've wanted to talk to you—been looking for you since class let out. Is our practice still on tomorrow?"

"Practice?"

Dirk quirked an eyebrow. "Our sonata practice. Remember? Fridays at five? Surely you haven't forgotten over holiday break?"

"Oh, right. Sorry—I've had a lot to think about lately. . ."

Dirk suddenly looked taken aback and flushed a little. "Oh. Yeah. Sorry about that. I should've thought before I said. . . but are we still on?"

"Of course," I flashed him a weak grin, "if you can live with the fact that I haven't seen my violin since December."

Dirk laughed and turned to go. "Just catch up some before tomorrow, will you?" he called over his shoulder and waved a hand in farewell.

Once Dirk had walked out of earshot, I turned to Draco standing next to me, his mouth opening and closing like a beached fish. "He's a good friend of mine," I explained. "We've been playing music together since middle school." Draco continued to work his jaw on his invisible chewing gum. I punched him lightly in the shoulder to get his attention. "Your charm didn't work so well, did it?" I asked him as conversationally as I could.

At this, Draco turned to face me; it still took him some time to find the right words. "But that's the thing," he said softly. "I've done that spell a hundred times, if once, and I've never—and I mean, _never_—messed it up. That leaves only one option. . ." He trailed off.

"What are you talking about, Draco?"

Draco stared at me, as if the thought was too shocking for him to believe. "That Dirk friend of yours is no Muggle. . . he's as much a wizard as I am."


	6. A Friday Sonata

_That Dirk friend of yours is no Muggle. . . he's as much a wizard as I am._

Draco's words rang in my head continuously as I walked down Main Street the next evening, the strap to my violin case slung over one shoulder. I was ten minutes early to Dirk's and my arranged meeting place, so I allowed myself the luxury of walking slowly—and tried to make sense of the magic-related chaos that surrounded me, Dirk's case being the acme of it.

Dirk Vandimar was what one would define a best friend, I suppose. We had known each other since elementary school, when we were the only members of our class to be promoted to the advanced level of fifth grade math. But while I was simply good in mathematics, Dirk was nothing short of brilliant. He was, throughout middle and high school, the captain of the Math Team. I was on Math Team, too, but always in the lower ranks—I never performed too well on Math Meets.

Another interest we shared was music. As soon as I discovered that Dirk was a pianist, I asked him if he wouldn't mind playing with me, a passable violinist. I always loved chamber music, but there weren't many kids my age who shared my passion. Dirk did, however, and we began meeting weekly at the recital room in the Women's Club downtown to play sonatas together (and work on homework, if time allowed).

Dirk's mother was an emigrated Brit, just like my parents, but she had come to the States a few years earlier than they had. Ellen Vandimar and my parents had known each other through shared acquaintances and such back in the Isles, but they never were on warm relations with each other. Dirk's father—no one else knew who he was, and Dirk certainly didn't. According to the rumors passed between the housewives of Cedar Mills, even Ms. Vandimar herself had no idea who was the father of her child; the reason she had left Britain, they said with the authority gained from many repetitions, was because of a string of failed love affairs with various married men, one of which resulted in a certain boy who made the front page in the local paper for winning first prize in the state math tournament. Several unmannered colleagues of mine had dared to tease Dirk about his mysterious parentage, but they never made the same mistake again; Dirk was a second-degree black belt in karate by the time he was in the ninth grade, and he wasn't one to hesitate with his fists once school was out of session.

I myself found it difficult to believe the tales those housewives shared over Sunday church teas, I thought as my feet brought me to the front steps of the Women's Club of Cedar Mills, a grand old building in the style of 19th-century Victorian England. Ms. Vandimar worked two jobs—bank clerk by day and grocery cashier by night—to support herself, Dirk, and her drunk of a redneck husband, Jim Ewell, who worked at the local General Motors plant during his rare moments of sobriety. Ms. Vandimar was a subdued, hard-working woman who never failed to offer a friendly smile in the few times I met her; it was hard to imagine that she could have been a play-girl in her earlier years.

Piano music floated down the grand staircase of the Women's Club as I entered. Dirk always came a half-hour early to warm up by himself; since his mother couldn't afford to keep a piano at home, the Women's Club acted as both our rendezvous point and his daily practice room. As I climbed the stairs, I let my hand slowly drift into the pocket of my violin case, reassured only when I felt the smooth wood brush against my fingers. This, I hoped, would be the key to my questions of Dirk's magical abilities. And I hoped it was worth the trouble it took to get it—it took a full hour of cajoling for me to convince Draco to let me borrow it for the afternoon.

The door to the recital room was ajar, and I was able to squeeze myself through the opening without moving the door on its rusty hinges. There was Dirk, seated before the baby grand on the recital stage and swaying with the music that poured out from his fingers. His backpack leaned against the legs of the piano, trembling slightly whenever Dirk played a deep bass chord. I watched him play the piece through to the end before wending my way through the aisles of concert seating to the stage.

Dirk rose to meet me, a warm smile on his face. He was tall, as I mentioned before; at six foot three, he towered over me like a friendly giant. His chestnut brown hair fairly gleamed under the stage lights, shimmering into different hues as he moved. And his eyes. . . until I had met Draco, I thought Dirk's eyes were spellbinding. While Draco's were as grey as the stormy sky over the Atlantic, Dirk's were as blue as the Atlantic itself: deep, unfathomable, and carrying an eerie light of their own.

"Estella. . ." Dirk and I leaned across the piano to give each other a quick hug. When we pulled away, I know I wasn't the only one with damp eyes. He sniffed a little before gesturing to the keyboard. "Are you ready?"

"As ready as ever," I replied as I set my violin case on the ground.

Our sonata practices were just that: sonata practices. We would each bring a sonata of our choosing, play paper-scissors-rock to decide whose sonata to use that day, and spend the rest of the hour sight-reading together. If the sonata was particularly long or difficult, we'd take it home to practice over the week and try it again during the next session. It was fun, relaxing, and good practice for the real world, where most of our pieces would have to be learned within days.

I won the paper-scissors-rock game for the first time in a long while, meaning that we would be playing Schubert's Second Sonatina—not quite as light as the First Sonatina, say, but not nearly as dark as the Third. I'd been wanting to play the piece for months, even before my parents had died; but, seeing as Dirk kept up a four-month winning streak in paper-scissors-rock, I'd never had the opportunity.

As we played, stopping for the occasional wrong note or other mishap, I couldn't help but notice what a great guy Dirk was. He always had a smile ready for a friend; whenever there was a problem, he would laugh it off if it was someone else's fault or take the responsibility of fixing it if it was his; he was kind to all living things, and he couldn't stand it if an animal or a plant was being mistreated; he was intelligent, in more ways than the standard textbook intelligent; and he was unerringly loyal, ready to defend any friend's honor to the death. All in all, I was lucky to have him for a friend. I know all the girls who wanted to date him would say so.

The hour flew by before we knew it, but we plodded on through the sonata until we finished—a full hour after our scheduled finishing time. No time for homework today, I thought ruefully as I knelt before my violin case, ready to pack away my instrument.

"Estella?"

I turned. Dirk was leaning on the piano, his head resting on the palms of his hands. He was looking at me with a trace of sadness in his eyes. "Is everything all right? You know. . ."

I nodded, then continued to pack my things away while I spoke. "Yes. It's getting better. I mean, I still miss my parents a lot, but I think I can live with it."

"I'm sorry, Estella." Dirk's voice cracked. "I'm sorry about what happened. And I'm sorry for not coming around more often. Your parents. . . your parents were like my own. They treated me like their own son. . . and I've been avoiding you like this. I should've been around more over break. . . it wasn't right to let you stay there alone all that time."

I didn't turn around; I didn't want to betray the tears that were slowly rolling down my cheeks. I wiped them away and sniffled a little before replying. "Really, Dirk, I'm all right. It was worse initially, but I'm over most of the pain now. Devon's arrival over holiday break helped a lot. He's been helping me cope."

"I'd like to talk to you about Devon, actually." I had just closed my case, and I faced Dirk at the tone he used. It was sharp and suspicious, not at all like Dirk normally was. "Your cousin is very spooky, to say the least. I don't like him at all. Now, I don't normally say this, but that boy has some very freaky tendencies. It gives me the heebie-jeebies just being around him."

"Come on, Dirk, you know he's from another country. . ."

"That's not what I meant. You see, I was in the bathroom with him yesterday—"

"Dirk, stop! Bad image, right there!"

"Just hear me out, will you? Anyway, I was in there, and your cousin had no clue whatsoever as to how the stepping lever worked for the sink. He kept on circling the sink, muttering about 'stupid contraptions' and 'bloody mess of metalwork' and I don't know what all. I had to show him that you step on the lever for the faucet to work, and he nearly jumped a mile when the water came out. You'd have thought he'd grown up a hermit, from the way he was acting."

I blushed. Curse Draco and his incompetence with Muggle machinery. . . "Is that all? Probably because his boarding school is a bit backwoods—"

"But that doesn't explain the tattoo on his arm."

"His—his what?"

"His tattoo. You must've seen it already—you know, on his left forearm. Well, he pushed up his sleeves to wash his hands, and I saw this big, black, God-forsaken tattoo of a skull with a weird tongue hanging out. I think the tongue was supposed to resemble a snake or something. . . anyway, it had a head of it's own, too. And I swear to God, the tongue, snake, whatever it was. . . it _moved._ I'm not sure if it was a trick of the light, or the muscle in his arm twitching, but it sure as hell moved." Dirk raised an eyebrow at me. "Is he in some strange motorcycle gang on the Isles?"

I couldn't feel any blood in my face. _Dirk had seen the Dark Mark. . ._ "Well—no, no, not that I know of," I stammered. "I mean, I don't know Devon all that well—but I never saw that tattoo before. . ."

"You didn't? That's strange." Dirk frowned. "Although, your cousin didn't seem overly fond of showing it off—he saw me looking at it, and he yanked his sleeve down again. Gave me the nastiest glare I've ever seen." Dirk sighed and moved to pick up his bag. "Well, must be going. . . chores are waiting, and Jim hates it when I'm back late. . ."

"Wait."

Dirk stopped and watched me as I rummaged through the pocket of my violin case. When I held out Draco's wand, he quirked an eyebrow at me. "What, in the name of Heaven and Hell, is that?"

"I—I just found this branch on the side of the road as I was coming here, and I didn't recognize the wood. It certainly didn't come from the tree it was under. I thought maybe you'd recognize it." I had come up with the story earlier, and I hoped it didn't sound too lame.

"And you're asking me to tell you. . . why?" Dirk was eyeing the wand suspiciously, as if it would wake up any moment and attack him.

"Because you've always liked plants and that sort of thing." I held the wand out a little farther. "Here, take it."

I watched Dirk's face carefully as he lifted the wand out of my hand. When his face registered sudden shock, I knew that my suspicions were confirmed. He had felt the same tingling and warmth as I had when I first touched a wand. . . which meant that the same magical power ran through our veins.

Dirk was a wizard. Definitely.

"This is strange." Dirk's puzzlement broke through my realization. He was holding up the wand to the light, trying to examine it better. "I would guess that it's hawthorn, but it's so polished. . . and it's not like it just broke off from a tree. Besides, there are no hawthorn trees in this area. Hmmmm. . . very strange." Dirk sent me a questioning look. "Where did you say you found this?"

I shrugged, then plucked the wand out of Dirk's hands. "On the roadside near my house." I took a deep breath before meeting his gaze. He'd have to find out the news, preferably straight from Draco's (or my) mouth. But most preferably in private.

"Can you come by my house for lunch tomorrow?" I asked him now. "I think we need to talk."

"Talk? About what?"

"Just. . . something important." I grinned. "Besides, you should get to know my cousin better. He's going to be here for a while, I think."

Dirk shuddered. "Well, like I said, he does give me the creeps. . . but if you want. . ." He shouldered his bag and walked past me, away from the piano. "Tomorrow at noon, your house?" He called over his shoulder.

"Tomorrow at noon!" I answered, all the time wondering what Dirk's reaction would be to finding out the true identity of my weird "cousin."


	7. Of Wormholes and Bullies

Draco was far from happy when I told him who was coming to lunch the next day, but he agreed to help me break the news to Dirk. I was thankful to him for his acquiescence; I had sensed the brimming rivalry between these two ever since we had met in the locker bay, but I couldn't quite figure out what it was all about.

In any case, I was finishing up with my attempts to cook spaghetti—one of Dirk's and my personal favorites—in the kitchen when the front doorbell rang. Draco called out that he would get it, so I ladled out the rather edible-smelling pasta (if I may say so myself) onto three plates before coming out to join them.

The atmosphere in the front corridor was bordering on explosion. Dirk and Draco were holding a silent staring contest as I entered, wiping my hands dry on a dish towel. And believe me, the contest was anything but friendly. I could've sworn that Draco was ready to draw his wand on Dirk and hex him.

"Welcome, Dirk," I chirped. The two boys started and turned to stare at me. "Come in, both of you—the spaghetti's ready." As I walked back to the kitchen, I heard the two pairs of footsteps following me for a while before turning off for the dining room.

I sighed to myself as I loaded the plates of spaghetti onto a tray to carry to the dining room. What in the world was I supposed to do with these two?

Lunch was tense, to say the least. Dirk and Draco kept on sending each other death glares across the table. I had a feeling that if they started to talk to each other, all hell just might break loose. I sat at the head of the table, watching them and inwardly shaking my head at their bloody stupidity.

When everyone's plates were empty, Dirk stretched and broke the silence. "That was wonderful, Estella," he smiled at me. I swear I saw Draco growing redder and redder by the moment. "When did you learn to cook so well?"

"Off and on, from my mother," I replied, watching Draco begin to resemble an overripe tomato.

"Well, it was really good. By the way, what was it that you wanted to talk about?"

Draco went from bright red to pale in a matter of seconds. I was a bit taken aback myself; but while I was trying to find the right words, Draco came up with a fair enough summary of the situation.

"You're a wizard."

_Oh, this should get interesting._ Dirk ogled the blonde sitting across from him. "Pardon?"

Draco leaned back and crossed his arms across his chest. "You're a wizard," he repeated with a smirk, seemingly enjoying Dirk's confusion.

Dirk imitated Draco's position. "Is this some sort of joke?"

"Not at all, my good man, not at all. I speak nothing but the truth."

Dirk's chair scraped the floor as he stood. "I'm sorry to say, you have all the truth of a mental patient; and if that's why you wanted me here today, I have better things to do with my time."

"Dirk!" I snapped. "Sit down!"

"I'm sorry, Estella, but if your nutcase of a cousin—"

"_I beg your pardon?!_"

"—is going to waste my time telling me about some fictitious power I may have, I don't have to sit here and listen to it!"

"Dirk," my voice softened, "he's not joking."

Dirk stared at me. "What?"

I exhaled loudly. "You _are_ a wizard."

"But magic doesn't exist!"

"I know—that's what I used to think, too. But it really does exist."

"Are you telling me that you actually believe what Devon is saying?!"

"If we're going to be friends for a while," Draco cut in, "I think some new introductions are in order." He extended a hand across the table. "The name's Malfoy—Draco Malfoy."

Dirk staggered backward, shock written all over his face. "You're WHO??"

"Yes, Dirk, he's a walking, talking, breathing character out of _Harry Potter!_" I shouted, rising from my chair at the same time. I was starting to get more than a little annoyed with the way things were turning out. "Calm down! You need to hear everything, and that's certainly not going to happen if you're trying to leave like a bat out of hell! Now, SIT!"

Dirk sat, still staring at Draco as if said person was a ghost. Not far off from the mark, actually. . . "I want proof," he mumbled.

Draco motioned to me. "You can do the honors, Estella."

I nodded, still standing, before raising my hand and pointing at Dirk's plate. "_Wingardium Leviosa!_"

Dirk's plate hovered in the air for a moment before coming back to rest on the table. Dirk watched its progress before turning to me. "So, that was you, wasn't it? You made Gundersnach's pencil fly into the air?"

I plopped into my seat and stared at the table, slightly embarrassed at being found out so easily. "Yeah."

"And when did you find this out? That you can do magic, I mean."

"Shortly after Draco arrived."

Dirk eyed Draco. "He's not your cousin, then?"

"Of course not. I had to create an alias for him. Can you imagine the media rampage if someone found out who he was?"

"Well, sure. But I'd really like to know how the hell he came here in the first place."

"Which I will tell both of you," Draco said, "as soon as you two stop talking about me like I left the room."

Draco pushed his chair away from the table and leaned back to look at both of us. "I suppose I should start at the very beginning," he said. "I was born into a pureblood wizarding family—one of the richest, with their own ideas of how the wizarding world should be run. Although, seeing as both of you have read the books about our world, I guess you'd know what I'm talking about already? But I digress.

"As rich purebloods, my parents wholeheartedly agreed with the Dark Lord's teachings and were one of the first to sign up with his army. They expected me to follow in their footsteps—and I did. But I wasn't all that happy about it, especially when I was assigned the task of killing Dumbledore as part of my initiation. I don't like the idea of killing people, especially someone as powerful as our Headmaster. Of course, I _had_ to make it look like I was trying to do it, or else I'd be dead before I could say 'Salazar Slytherin'. . . although maybe, after the way things turned out, I would've been better off that way.

"Since Estella already seems to know how my last attempt at Dumbledore's assassination failed miserably, I won't go over it again. However, suffice it to say that the Dark Lord wasn't pleased with me. Professor Snape wasn't supposed to reveal his double loyalties just then, and my inaction 'ruined' the Dark Lord's plans, as he reminded me with an hour long session of Cruciati. Just as I was feeling the beginnings of insanity taking hold, he stopped, saying that he had a better punishment in store for me.

"First, he summoned my mother. She had no idea what was going on, and I didn't either—my tortured brain had enough to do with staying conscious. The Dark Lord had us all, including the other Death Eaters, Apparate to Azkaban, where he led us directly to my father's cell. My father looked as if his wildest dreams had come true. . . until Voldemort summoned a dementor and ordered—ordered it to give my father a Dementor's Kiss."

Draco buried his face in his hands, and Dirk and I remained silent, too shocked to comfort him. Minutes passed before Draco, breathing heavily, looked up at us and continued his tale in a choked voice.

"Before the dementor took hold of him, my father asked the Dark Lord what he had done to merit such a punishment. The Dark Lord replied that my father's crime was siring such a traitorous, cowardly son as the one standing before him—at which point he had me brought forth—who failed his very first mission, a comparatively easy one at that. My mother was crying behind me, and I had to stand there while my father gave me this last betrayed look before—before it happened. And even_that_ was infinitely better than the glazed look in his eyes after the dementor was through with him.

"Then my mother was dragged to her knees next to my father's limp body, wailing and crying for mercy. And my Aunt Bella—" Draco wiped away his tears, "—my Aunt Bella was instructed to torture my mother until 'she had learned her lesson.' And she did. Aunt Bella tortured her own youngest sister until my mother had stopped screaming and was staring at me with the same glazed look as my father. She was still breathing, but not for long, since Aunt Bella finished—finished her—finished her off—"

Draco broke down completely. He dropped his head into his arms on the table and sobbed loudly, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably. With a swift glance toward Dirk, whose eyes were also damp, I got up from my seat and walked over to Draco's side. I dropped to my knees next to his chair and wrapped my arms around him until his sobs subsided, gradually fading away to soft hiccoughing. I traced a small circle in the small of his back with my fingers, as my mother used to do on the rare occasions when I cried in her arms.

When he finally calmed down enough to speak, he raised his head and gave me a faint smile. "Thanks," he said softly.

"Don't mention it," I replied as I returned to my seat. "If it's not too uncomfortable. . . what happened next?"

Draco inhaled deeply. "I was tortured. Again. Next to my parents' bodies, I was tortured by the Dark Lord. And then he had me taken away to the slums of London by two Death Eater escorts—but not before he officially had me disowned by my late parents, with him acting as their spokesman. I couldn't access the family estate or Gringotts' accounts, not even command one of our house-elves. I had to fend for myself—without magic, mind you, since the Ministry had a bounty on my head, and my wand was probably being traced. It was the worst six months of my life, believe me." He shuddered and fell silent.

"But that still doesn't explain how you got here," Dirk commented, leaning on the table.

"I'm getting there," Draco sounded annoyed at the interruption. "Anyway, on Christmas morning, I decided I'd had enough of living like a Muggle guttersnipe. I went to London Bridge, and I was just about to throw myself into the Thames River—"

Suddenly, the date dawned on me. On Christmas morning, I was trying to drown myself, too.

"—and just as I was about to jump, this black hole opened up in the water beneath me, and I fell in. I fell for what felt like hours, mostly in darkness, screaming my head off the whole time, until it opened up and I found myself here, in Estella's backyard."

Dirk leaned back in his chair, his eyes thoughtful. "I think I know what it was," he said. "A wormhole."

"A wormhole?" I was skeptical. "Do you really think so? I thought that was just a lot of science fiction speculation."

"Begging your pardon, it is _not,_" Dirk sniffed. "Just because we don't know everything about it yet doesn't mean that it doesn't exist."

"What is a wormhole, anyway?" Draco asked, an eyebrow quirked.

"A wormhole is a portal between parallel universes," Dirk said, taking on the tone he used whenever he explained a new concept to me. "As Estella so kindly put it, much of what is known about wormholes is speculation worthy of science fiction writing; but there are a lot of scientists who are treating it as a force to be reckoned with. Technically speaking, when two parallel universes—or worlds, if you wish—collide, a wormhole through the barriers surrounding these worlds is temporarily formed by the impact of the collision; and presumably, a person should be able to travel between two worlds via the wormhole."

"Well, wormhole or not," Draco continued, "I found myself here with Estella standing over me. She looked so much like Potter with long hair and without glasses that I nearly ran for cover right there and then." He smiled at the memory. "Good thing I didn't think of hexing her. . . I know I'd be regretting it right now."

"Harry Potter? Without glasses?" Dirk suddenly burst out laughing, and I blushed when I realized what he was thinking of. "Estella, why don't you show Draco what you really look like?"

"Dirk. . ." I tried to stop him, but Dirk kept talking, much to my embarrassment.

"Estella doesn't have glasses because she has contacts—those little pieces of glass that fix your eyesight without glasses," Dirk was telling Draco. "She used to wear these black plastic glasses all the time, a lot like what they show in the _Harry Potter_ movies nowadays. When the _Harry Potter_ series first came out, a lot of our friends started teasing her for being a _Harriet_ Potter; so, she stopped wearing the glasses and convinced her parents to get her contacts. Do you still have those old frames around here, Estella?"

"Yes," I answered, miffed. "I still wear them at home sometime—contacts can be such a pain if you wear them day and night." Truth be told, I had avoided wearing those particular glasses since Draco had come, mostly to avoid the evil eye Draco had given me whenever the subject of Harry Potter (the wizard) had come up. Now, I sighed resignedly and left the table for the nearest bathroom to undergo a mild cosmetic transformation.

When I came back a few minutes later, transformation complete, Draco nearly fell out of his chair in shock. Dirk was laughing even harder than before, and even I couldn't hold back a smile.

"What, Draco?" I teased. "A remarkable likeness?"

"Bloody_unbelievable,_" he gasped. "You look _exactly_ like Potter. Exactly. Merlin be damned, I probably would've hexed you on the spot if you were wearing those!"

I started to take the frames off, but Draco waved at me to stop. "Keep them on," he said. "You look better with glasses than without—more than I can say for Potter, at any rate; he looks messed up no matter what he wears."

* * *

The mood had lightened considerably after lunch, and we decided to take a little walk through the forest surrounding my house to stretch out our legs. Draco took the lead, exploring the various paths between the trees and bending over to examine the fallen leaves and branches visible through the melting snow, while Dirk and I fell behind in conversation.

"It's still strange," Dirk was saying. "Not that I don't believe him, but how did he end up _here,_ out of all the millions of possible universes he could've ended up in? It's a very small chance indeed that he travel directly from his world to ours—the odds are, say, one in several hundred million."

"Worthy of HP fanfiction, don't you think?" I laughed when Dirk rolled his eyes; he wasn't overly fond of my hobby, as he had made clear countless times before. But I sobered quickly. "Really, I think there was a reason for Draco coming to this particular universe of ours."

Dirk looked at me questioningly. "And what would that be?"

I took a deep breath. "You remember what Draco said he was trying to do when the wormhole appeared?"

Dirk wrinkled his nose. "He was trying to kill himself, wasn't he? In the Thames? Disgustingly filthy way to die, if you ask me."

"He wasn't so clean and pretty when he came here, believe me," I returned. "Skinnier than a rail, and he looked worse than a tramp. . . but that's not the point. I—I was trying to drown myself in the pond on Christmas morning, maybe even at the same time Draco was trying to do it."

Dirk's jaw dropped, but I cut him off before he could say anything. "Maybe the wormhole was more—disposed, shall we say, to connect two worlds with similar circumstances. . . like Draco and I both trying to die at the same moment."

"Estella," Dirk's tone was accusatory. "You said you were fine after your parents died!"

"Well. . ." I kicked at a dead branch. "Not exactly. I was getting really depressed until Draco came around. . . he saved my life, actually." Just as much as I had saved his, to be honest, although I really hadn't realized it at the time.

"Why didn't you come and talk to me? God knows I didn't want you to be suffering by yourself. You should've—"

"The past is past, Dirk," I interrupted. "I could've done this, I should've done that. . . but then none of this would've happened in that case. You've said yourself about the role that probability plays in parallel universes and quantum mechanics. Draco probably would've succeeded in killing himself, if not going to another universe entirely. I never would've found out that we're both magical, and we wouldn't be walking together in this forest right now—who knows what else could happen in between?"

Dirk stopped walking, as did I, and stared deep into my eyes for several moments. Then, he turned away with a shrug. "I suppose you're right," he sighed. "Maybe this was all for the best. . ."

"Not the best, perhaps," I countered. "But we can't change it now, so what's the use of complaining?"

Dirk nodded grudgingly, then looked around us with a worried expression. "By the way, what happened to Draco?"

To my surprise, Draco was nowhere to be seen. He must have really gone ahead of us while we had been talking. "Don't worry, I'm sure he's somewhere around here," I started to say—but the words were barely out of my mouth before angry voices abruptly began a shouting match quite a ways ahead of us. Dirk and I glanced at each other meaningfully before breaking into a run in their direction.

What Draco didn't know—and what Dirk and I were worried about—was that the forest behind my house had always been the meeting place of high-school thugs and bullies who had nothing better to do on the weekends. My parents were annoyed by these unwanted trespassers, but we couldn't do anything about it as long as the hooligans didn't vandalize our property (which they didn't) or harm anyone else by their behavior (which they probably did, but we couldn't prove).

In any case, they enjoyed beating up unsuspecting victims and terrorizing young people in general, and they definitely weren't fond of strangers who happened across their meeting place. That was why I had such a nasty feeling about what Draco had gotten himself into, and I mentally kicked myself for letting him drift away from us without at least warning him first.

When Dirk and I reached a small clearing in the woods, my worst fears were realized. A tight circle of about a dozen burly thugs surrounded Draco, who was struggling to get away from the two teens pinning him by the arms. A thin stream of blood from his lower lip trickled down onto his chin; to say he looked scared was an understatement. The leader of the thugs, a brawny Hispanic boy named Rodriguez whom I had seen extorting lunch money from terrified little ones ever since middle school, was laughing and drawing his fist back for another punch—until Dirk and I forced our way through to the center of the circle.

"Well, who do we have here?" Rodriguez' heavy Mexican accent was laced with scorn. "Two know-it-alls, come to help their weak friend, eh? Wanna join us in some fun?"

"Leave him alone." My hands unconsciously balled into fists, and Rodriguez laughed again, as did some of his goons.

"Oh, is _señorita_ gonna try to stop us?" he snickered. "I wonder what's she gonna do 'bout it? P'raps, read at us?"

"Get the hell off our property, Rodriguez," I retorted in Spanish. Thanks to my father's background, Spanish was my second fluent language. "Otherwise, I will call the cops. And that'd be after I beat the crap out of you."

"Go ahead and try, Bonavideo," Rodriguez snapped back, in Spanish as well. "You're outnumbered twelve to three. You're a wimp. This friend we have here is a wimp. And I'm not afraid of that _hijo de puta_ you've brought with you, either."

Dirk and I both flushed at that insult; Dirk's Spanish was less advanced than mine, but even he could understand the translation of _hijo de puta._ But our indignation was cut off by the four thugs who broke out of the circle at a wave from Rodriguez and lumbered in our direction, arms flexing menacingly.

I waited until one of them was close enough before raising a hand and Stunning one of them. When he crumbled to the ground, I turned and Stunned the other that was coming in my direction. I trusted that Dirk would be able to take care of his two, and I was right. Pretty soon, they were both lying on the forest floor, groaning, while Dirk stood triumphantly over them. I sure was glad that Dirk was a master of both Judo and Karate.

Rodriguez was looking far from pleased—or confident. Having four of one's goons go down, and two for no apparent reason, would make anyone's ego take a fall. From behind Rodriguez, Draco gave me a small smile; of course, _he_ knew what had knocked out two of those thugs.

"I would leave if I were you," I advised him in English. "And I can promise you worse if you come back here again. Now, get!"

Rodriguez snarled some incoherent words at me, then signaled for his followers to leave. The two teens who were holding Draco threw him to the ground before stomping off after their leader. As an afterthought, I sent a wordless hex at Rodriguez' behind; he yelped, grabbed at his jeans where the hex had struck him, and hurried away even faster than before. In their haste to leave, they forgot to take their fallen comrades with them; not that I was complaining—those four deserved to wake up with a sore neck, at the very least.

Next to me, Draco slowly got to his feet, glaring daggers at Rodriguez' retreating back still visible through the trees. "The bastard jumped me when I wasn't looking," he growled. "I was going to hex him, but then they grabbed me by the arms. . ." He drew his hand across his mouth and seemed surprised to find that he was bleeding.

"Here. . ." I pulled out a handkerchief from my back pocket and started dabbing at Draco's chin where the blood had left a red stain. In my peripheral vision, I saw Dirk cross his arms, looking displeased. Draco sent him a triumphant glance, and that was when I realized: they were jealous of each other—about _me._ Bloody prats.

I cleared my throat and pulled back abruptly. "Best leave before those thugs wake up," I opined. The boys jumped a bit before nodding and following me as I led the way back home.

"Did they hurt you?" I asked Draco as we wended our way through the forest.

"No, not much," Draco replied. He touched his jaw, then winced. "But I think I'm going to be a bit sore whenever I talk for the next few days."

"Well, Rodriguez shouldn't be coming back for a while," I said with a smirk. "I left him with a little present to remember me by, if he's smart enough to figure it out."

"What do you mean?" Dirk asked.

I didn't answer him, but turned to Draco instead. "Tell me, how long does it take for the Furnunculus Curse to wear off?"

"Without the counter-curse? It would take ages. Why—" Suddenly, comprehension dawned on Draco's face. "No. . ."

"You didn't. . ." Dirk murmured, sounding awed.

"But I did. Just before he left." I laughed. "Boy, is Rodriguez going to have an interesting time sitting down from now on. . . with that lovely patch of boils on his arse."


	8. Love is Magical

The next month passed us smoothly by in a whirlwind of winter storms, school, sonata practices. . . and for me, magic lessons.

Draco kept his promise about teaching me all the magic he could remember from his six years at Hogwarts. Every evening and weekend that I had free, he and I teamed up in the old tool shed next to my house to practice magic. I learned the spells amazingly quickly, which led Draco to comment that he was glad I didn't go to Hogwarts, as he (and Hermione Granger, for that matter) would have done far worse in class than either Prefect's ego could have borne.

By the end of January, I had learned everything that Draco could teach me—including the spells that were not normally included in the Hogwarts curriculum. The Sectumsempra and the Imperius Curses were learned at Draco's insistence; he said that those two were the curses he had used the most frequently to keep himself alive when angry Death Eaters were on his tail. He had never actually used the Cruciatus Curse; but since he knew first-hand what it was like to be on the receiving end, he insisted on teaching me the basics behind casting that as well. However, when he tried to teach me the Avada Kedavra, I balked. I told him that there was no way I would be using that spell, not even if I was going to die first. He relented, and there our lessons ended on a sober note.

Every so often, when his part-time job and ever-demanding stepfather would let him, Dirk would join us to learn some basic spell techniques. Draco would let Dirk borrow the hawthorn wand while coaching the two of us on our postures, our gestures, our pronunciation, everything. Whatever happened to be even the slightest bit wrong, he was sure to pick up and scold us for it. Then, at the end of every session, he would pair us up: sometimes Dirk and I, other times Dirk and Draco, but most often Draco and I would face off in a mock duel, using whatever offensive and defensive spells each of us knew. More often than not, Dirk and I would give up using magic and tackle Draco the Muggle way, causing the latter to give up his teaching with much laughter and riotous wrestling.

Finally, as the gusty winds of January turned into the blowing rains of February, Draco declared that we had learned enough regular magic to qualify us for Apparition tests. It was only a matter of us learning_how_ to Apparate.

Thus, Dirk and I found ourselves shivering in my backyard on one of the few dry afternoons of the month, facing a very stern-looking Draco holding two hula hoops he had found in my garage. We had already spent the previous hour in the tool shed, poring over Draco's handwritten notes on the theory behind Apparition, before Draco would let us come out into the bitterly cold yard to practice. None of us were wearing coats, as Draco said that any extra clothing could hinder our Apparition, even getting us splinched—and neither of us was in the mood to be splinched.

"Now, remember the three D's—" Draco began, but Dirk cut him off impatiently with a wave of his hand.

"Yeah, yeah, destination, determination, deliberation, we got it already," Dirk gritted through his teeth, clenched tight against the cold. "Sheesh. . . if we don't start out soon, I'm going to freeze to death, blast this Minnesota weather."

"Hear, hear," I muttered, stamping my feet to keep them warm.

Draco merely shook his head. "You Muggles. . . never seem to be able to think out of the box," he wagged a finger at us playfully. That was when I realized that he didn't seem to be affected by the cold wind at all—the prat had gone and cast a warming charm on himself!

Cursing Draco under my breath, I quickly cast the charm on myself and Dirk, who gave me a grateful nod, before turning back to face Draco, who was setting up the hoops several feet away from us.

"All right." He straightened up and looked each of us in the eye as he spoke. "I want you two to close your eyes and imagine yourself squeezing down into as small of a space as you can—say, a ball or a tiny box or something. Then, visualize the spot you're trying to get to as best you can—in this case, inside the hoop—spin on your heels counterclockwise, and try to move yourself there with your magic." Then, seeming to notice our confused expressions, "Does that make sense?"

"Not really," Dirk sighed, "but can we just get this over with? I'm getting cold again."

Draco rolled his eyes before pointing at Dirk melodramatically. "Then do me the honor of starting."

Dirk closed his eyes (not before muttering something about what a jerk Draco was) and spun on his heels as directed. Nothing happened, unless you could count him toppling over onto his bum as a precursor to Apparition.

Next was my turn. Again, no result apart from me being dizzier than I would have liked.

Draco snorted at our efforts, then Apparated into the hoop in front of me with a loud _POP!_ "It's not like the regular magic we've been working on. Nothing helps more than lots and lots of practice," he commented from inside the hoop. Dirk and I exhaled loudly with obvious exasperation. This was going to take a while.

I tried again, and again, and yet again, and still nothing happened. I was getting so used to being able to pick up a spell within the first try that this non-responsive Apparition business was starting to irritate me. Dirk got up from the ground and began to practice as well. I was awfully glad that no one else but Draco was around to see us, as our repeated spinning around on our feet and increasing amounts of cursing as time wore on was making Dirk and I look rather foolish indeed.

Finally, after many, many tries (I had lost count around twenty-three), Dirk Apparated into his hoop—minus his left ear.

"AAAARRRRGGGGHHHH!!"

Draco was at his side in a flash, and I saw only a glimpse of Dirk's disembodied ear suspended in mid-air next to me before it was reattached to Dirk's head with a flick of Draco's wand. Dirk was, at this point, curled up on the ground, holding his head with both hands and moaning. Draco was standing over him, looking at Dirk with a mixture of amusement and pity. I came over and squatted next to Dirk, concerned for his well-being by this point. "Feel better yet?" Draco asked Dirk after a minute had passed.

"Oh, sure," Dirk grumbled, rubbing his left ear. "Except for the fact that my ear feels like it's been torn off with a pair of tweezers, I feel just lovely."

"Well, that's what it's like to be splinched," Draco said matter-of-factly. "You must've missed on one of the three D's—most people are bad with the determination part; but for me, it's deliberation." He stood up and pulled me up with him. "Back to it again," he said to me. "And remember, don't make the same mistake your friend just did. . . splinching is a right pain in the arse, believe me."

I nodded, then walked back to my starting point and closed my eyes. Dirk's accident had gotten me unbelievably focused on the task at hand, and I felt magic swirling in my gut that I hadn't felt before. _Into the hoop, into the hoop,_ I repeated over and over in my head, visualizing the spot where I wanted to end up. I spun on my heels. . . and felt a sudden, tight squeeze on all sides before being released. I opened my eyes to find myself inside the hoop, with Draco looking very pleased standing next to me.

I was still in the middle of my spin when I Apparated into the hoop; therefore, I lost my balance as soon as I fully materialized. However, before I could fall over, Draco had grabbed my arm and held me upright—so that I was standing much closer to him than I ever had before. His warm breath steamed up part of my glasses. For some inexplicable reason, my heart began to pound in my ears, and I felt slightly faint all of a sudden.

"Are you all right?" he asked me softly, looking concerned. I saw relief flood his eyes as I nodded.

Dirk broke the spell with a loud "Ahem!" that made Draco release my arm and back away quickly. He shook himself almost imperceptibly before giving me a thumbs up and going over to help Dirk, who was standing at the starting line again and impatient to try again. I had to blink several times to clear myself of the strange emotions that were threatening to overpower me. A half-formed question, one that I simply couldn't brush to the side, slipped past the barriers of my subconscious and wormed its way into my mind as I watched Draco help Dirk learn how to Apparate without splinching himself.

Was I really falling in love—with Draco Malfoy?

* * *

Once our magic lessons were finished, I found Draco to be growing more and more secretive over the next week or two. He would spend hours in the now-empty tool shed while I was at school, casting strong wards on the shed before he left so that I wouldn't be able to break in, even if I wanted to. When I attempted to question him on his activities, he would brusquely tell me to mind my own business if I wanted to keep my nose in the same region of my face. Of course, I desisted; only time would tell what Draco was up to, I thought—and I was right.

On the evening before Valentine's Day, there was a huge snowstorm that dumped nearly eight inches of snow over Cedar Mills. Of course, school was cancelled for the day, meaning that Draco and I had Valentine's Day to ourselves. When I asked him what he wanted to do, he simply smiled and said that he wanted to show me something; but we'd have to do it outside, someplace where people were not likely to visit.

After some searching on MapQuest, I found the perfect spot: a medium-sized park several miles from my house. It took a bit of coaching on Draco's part, but I managed to Apparate there first using the GPS coordinates only. I had to wait several minutes in the snow-covered clearing by myself, as Draco had to pack something to bring along "without your inquisitive eyes boring a hole through the back of my head," as he put it.

When he finally arrived, he was carrying a long package wrapped in brown paper and tied up with twine. Before I had the chance to ask him what it was, he handed it to me. As I touched the wrapping, I felt a strong surge of magic from within the package.

"This is for you," he said to me with a shy smile. "Consider it my payment for everything you've done for me so far." I stood there, staring at him in shock. When I didn't move, he nudged my hand that was holding the package. "Go on. . . open it."

I untied the twine, trembling slightly now, and ripped away the wrapping. When I saw what was inside, the brown paper slipped from my now-nerveless fingers onto the ground. In my hands was a well-polished broom, one that Draco seemingly had taken from my garage, and it radiated pure magic. There was only one reason I could think of. . .

"It's a flying broomstick," I whispered, running my hands lovingly up and down the smooth handle.

"Do you—do you like it?" Draco asked timidly after a few moments of pause.

"Like it?" I turned to him, grinning broadly. "_Like_ it? God, Draco, I _love_ it! Do you know how long I've dreamed of flying since you came here?" I paused, suddenly realizing the point of all his seclusion in the tool shed. "Did you make this yourself?"

Draco nodded. "When I was younger, I was obsessed with Quidditch and flying in general. I ended up dismantling my Nimbus 2001 and putting it back together again, I was so fascinated by it. Father let me do it, saying that it was a worthy hobby of a pureblood young wizard." He shrugged. "The result was that I learned all the spells necessary to make a broomstick fly by the time I was thirteen."

"Wow," I whispered as I weighed the broom in my hand. It felt perfectly balanced, almost ready to leap into the air then and there.

Draco watched me for a moment longer before asking me the question I was waiting for. "Do you want to fly it?"

I started giggling like an excited schoolgirl (which I was, of course). "Hell, yes!"

Draco smiled at my response. "Put the broom on the ground and call it to your hand first—that way, it knows who's its master."

I reverently set the broom on the snow next to me before holding my hand over it and shouting, "Up!" The broom shot upwards into the palm of my hand, quivering as it waited for my next move.

"Now, mount it. Straddling it like a horse might be the easiest for you at this point, although there are many girls who prefer side-saddle flying."

_Not this tomboy,_ I thought as I threw one leg over the broom. As soon as I did, the broom lifted me so that I was hovering three feet off the ground. I grinned. Oh, boy, this was starting to look fun.

"Whoa, not so fast!" Draco was looking concerned. "You shouldn't start flying until—ESTELLA!"

Too late. I was already in the air, alternately laughing and shrieking with delight as I looped and soared through the grey sky. The feeling of being able to fly through the air with no help, save a broom. . . it is total adrenaline and clarity of mind at the same time, a happy medium between recklessness and control that intoxicates the person on the broom to no end. It was incredible, to say the least. Not to mention that Draco had done an excellent job of charming the broom to fly properly; the broom turned with the slightest touch in the desired direction, and I felt almost weightless as I flew.

There was no question about it: Draco had given me the perfect gift.

Around fifteen minutes later, I did a little loop-de-loop and landed in front of a very shocked Draco. "That—was—amazing," he managed to choke out as I beamed at him. "I've never seen any first-timer fly like that—well, except for Potter, that is. You're a born Quidditch player, definitely. Slytherin would have won the House Cup by now if you were on the team."

I laughed his praise to the side, then motioned for him to get on the broom. "Come on, let's fly!"

Draco backed away, looking aghast. "No way! That broom would never hold the two of us!"

"You're too modest. You did an amazing job of charming this broom, and you know it. And besides," I pointed out with a smirk worthy of a Malfoy, "you didn't think I could fly on my first try, either."

Silence. Then, "Touché," Draco sighed as he clambered onto the broom behind me.

* * *

We didn't land until many hours later, after the sun had set and just as the moon was beginning to crest over the horizon. We had soared around the sky for the entire afternoon, laughing together and taking turns casting heating charms on us to keep us warm. Draco told me about the rules of Quidditch, and I pointed out the familiar landmarks as we flew many yards above them. It was a beautiful ride, and the constant touch of his arms around me during the flight made me realize. . .

I was indeed in love with this handsome Slytherin from another world.

The question was, did he feel the same way about _me?_

* * *

Once we Apparated home, I went inside first to make us some hot cocoa; the heating charms had certainly been effective, but nothing beat the cold Minnesota winters better than a warm drink. Draco had stayed outside to put away the broom in the tool shed and undo the many wards he had placed on it. As he hadn't yet come in when the cocoa was finished, I cast a temperature charm on the mugs so that they would cool to just the right temperature before going outside with the drinks to find him.

He was standing in our backyard, arms akimbo, staring out at the star-speckled sky and the full moon that hung in its midst, a pure white orb amongst the speckled jewels scattered on black velvet. I stood some ways behind him for a while, silently observing how the bright moonlight shone in his blond hair and made it look like white gold. I was sure that the moon gave his deep grey eyes a shine of their own as well. My heart pounded faster just imagining it.

I cleared my throat to get his attention. . . and to calm down my rampant emotions. "It's a beautiful night."

Draco turned to me, a soft smile on his face. I handed him a mug of cocoa; he took it from me gently, cupping his hands around the mug for warmth and inhaling the sweet fragrance that misted from the drink. "Thank you."

"No, thank _you,_" I corrected him. "I should be the one thanking you for such a wonderful present."

He shook his head. "It was all I could do for all that you've done for me." He sidled over so that he was right beside me and smiled. "Besides, you also gave me the time of my life back there. I haven't flown on a broomstick for nearly a year, and I really missed it. It was wonderful, flying with you—I almost felt like I was back home again."

I merely nodded, as I found that my voice had disappeared. We stood there for a while longer, sipping at our cocoa in silence and staring out at the night sky.

"It's so beautiful," I finally whispered. Draco nodded. "It reminds me of what Father used to sing. . ." And before I could stop myself, I was softly singing the Galician poem I had learned when I was six years old.

_Lúa descolorida  
como cor de ouro pálido,  
vesme i eu non quixera  
me vises de tan alto.  
Ó espaso que recorres,  
lévame, caladiña, nun teu raio. . ._

As I sang, I felt Draco's arm slowly work their way around my upper back, encircling me with his warmth.

_Astro das almas orfas,  
lúa descolorida,  
eu ben sei que n'alumas  
tristeza cal a mina.  
Vai contalo ó teu dono,  
e dille que me leve adonde habita. . ._

I allowed myself to sink into his body, resting my head on his shoulder while I finished out the last stanza.

_Mais non lle contes nada,  
descolorida lúa,  
pois nin neste nin noutros  
mundos teréis fertuna.  
Se sabe onde a morte  
ten a morada escura,  
dille que corpo e alma xuntamente  
me leve adonde non recorden nunca,  
nin no mundo en que estóu nin nas alturas._

There was a short silence as the last note faded away into the air. Then, Draco murmured, "You sing beautifully."

"Thank you." I could feel myself blushing. I wasn't an opera singer, but enough people had commented me on my sweet singing voice that I knew Draco's compliment wasn't mere flattery. And somehow, Draco's opinion meant more to me than everyone else's combined.

"What is that song, anyway?"

I looked up into his face as I spoke. "The poem itself is called 'Lúa Descolorida.' It's in Gallego, the language spoken near my father's hometown in Spain. I don't know about the music itself—some regional lullaby, I think."

His grey eyes penetrated mine. "Would you teach it to me?" His arm pulled me just a little closer to him.

"It would be my pleasure. I have a copy of the text in the library; I can give it to you, if you'd like." I smiled at him, and he returned the favor brilliantly. Oh, how I longed to remain in his gaze forever. . . I shivered slightly at the thought.

Draco mistook my shivering for the cold. "Merlin's beard! You don't have a coat on! I'm so sorry, Estella. . . we've been out here for so long, and I didn't even notice. Here, let's go inside." He released me and turned to go, effectively ending my romantic reverie.

With a small sigh, I followed him back into the house. Before walking through the kitchen doorway, however, I turned back and gazed at the moon. It was still there, smiling down on me, comforting me with its presence. "Do you think there's any hope for me, _lúa descolorida?_" I breathed.

The moon continued to shine as brightly as always.


	9. Descending into Madness

The next day was a Friday, but school was still closed due to the snow. Therefore, Draco and I spent the morning in the kitchen, drinking hot chocolate and debating over what to do for the afternoon. Draco wanted to stay indoors and keep warm at all costs; but I was for going outside, be it for flying or sledding or just playing in the snow. I had finally convinced Draco to try sledding—or, as he put it, "that infernal Muggle sport on a trashcan lid"—when something completely unexpected and extraordinary occurred.

At first, neither of us noticed the soft tapping on the kitchen window, we were so engrossed in our discussion over the merits of sledding. But when two golden eyes peered in at me through a crack in the curtains that shaded that particular window, it was all I could do not to scream—and I came pretty darn close.

"What the hell is _that?_"

When he heard my exclamation and saw those unnerving eyes for himself, Draco jumped up and ran to the window, where he threw back the curtains and let the winter sun flash into the room with a blinding light. It took us a few moments to adjust our eyes to the brightness; and when we did, we both froze at what we saw.

Hovering just outside, its wings pumping wildly against the wintry winds, was a black owl with a small parcel attached to its leg.

Both Draco and I stared at the bird in stiff silence for many moments. Then, Draco reached out, undid the latch, and pulled the window up with a rough jerk; the owl soared in and immediately landed on Draco's shoulder. I gaped at the owl as Draco untied the package from the bird's leg, at which point the owl took off from its erstwhile human perch and flew out the window again, disappearing from sight within moments.

Draco tore open the package, and I saw his face grow pale as he scanned the contents. I watched him from my seat at the breakfast table, still in some shock from the owl's sudden appearance. It _had_ to be from his world, but who would know that he was here?

Suddenly, he looked up at me, his face betraying a turmoil of emotions. "Read this." His voice was tight as he tossed me a scroll of parchment. I caught it and began to read the scrawling handwriting.

_Draco,_

_I__know__ you are still alive and out there somewhere, so please do me the favor of not ignoring this letter. I hope this owl finds you in better conditions than where you were last—I should say, where Wormtail found you last. _

_Yes, Peter Pettigrew had been following you, from the time you were abandoned in Muggle London until your reported 'demise.' The Dark Lord was quite pleased with the news, since your survival was all that kept him from accessing your family's estate. You, of all people, should know that the Dark Lord's naming of himself as the heir to the Malfoy legacy did not automatically make him the heir__over__ you; he merely became the heir __after__ you. The blood protection of estate runs strong in pureblood families; therefore, he had to wait until your natural death before he could attempt to take over any of the Malfoy funds. I hear that he sent several assassins on your trail, but all were complete imbeciles when it came to tracking a seemingly Muggle tramp. Only Pettigrew was successful in monitoring you completely; but he was under orders to simply watch, not act._

_However, when the Dark Lord tried to access your estate after Pettigrew's announcement, the result was the same as when you were alive. That was when I realized that, whatever the odds were against you that day, you had somehow survived and were in hiding. I could only guess__where__ you were hiding, though. Stupidly, it took me another two months to realize that any post owl can track you down. Hopefully, this one did. Merlin knows it made enough of a fuss when I told it whom to track down; I still have a pile of owl feathers and excretions in my study that has yet to be cleared away._

_Enclosed is a Portkey that will bring you to Spinner's End when you put it on. Should you choose to return, I swear to protect you until either the Dark Lord is defeated or, in the more likely scenario, forgets about you entirely. It would be more suitable for the last scion of one of the oldest pureblood families in Britain to return to his fatherland than to languish in exile in some remote country where no one (not even the Dark Lord) can track him down. Safe, indeed, but not at all practical. I am sure that is __not__ what your either of your parents would have wanted you to do._

_I hope you seriously consider my offer, and I earnestly await your arrival._

_Your concerned godfather,_

_Severus Snape_

"Your—your godfather is—_Snape!_" I spluttered, dropping the parchment onto the breakfast table.

Draco snorted from his position at the kitchen window. "Is that the first question that comes to your mind when you read that?"

"Well, I think I already knew that owls _can_ track anyone down, no matter where they are, so there goes my other question," I retorted. "So, is he, or not?"

"He is. He was my father's best friend, pretty much, and he provided the Pain-Killer for my mother when she went into labor with me. He's been watching out for me ever since I started at Hogwarts."

"I see." A long pause. Draco was staring out the window with his back to me; I couldn't tell what he was thinking. "What is this 'blood protection' he mentioned? About estate transfer or something?"

"Pureblood families have a long tradition of primogeniture—you know, passing the property on to the firstborn son." Draco's voice took on a dreamy tone that I had never heard before. "There's this charm that most of the pureblood families cast on themselves to make sure that the proper heir gets the estate. If the last remaining heir to the family is still alive, the estate will be automatically locked away from everyone but the heir—" He turned to face me; he was rolling something around in his closed fist. "Until the heir dies."

"Oh." I let his words sink in for a moment before pointing to his fist. "Is that the Portkey?"

"Yes. Do you want to see it?" When I nodded, Draco walked over and dropped a ring into my waiting hands. It was quite a plain little thing made of gold, without any stones or other decoration; but it radiated a dark, irrational sensation of fear that made me shiver unconsciously.

"I don't like this," I murmured without realizing it.

"What?"

"It feels—" I searched for the right word, but none came. "It feels wrong."

Draco glanced at the ring in my hands before shrugging off my comment. "Can I have that back now?"

"Why?"

Draco snorted. "Well, obviously, so that I can use it."

I looked at the ring in my palm, weighing it as I chose my words. "So. . . you just want to put it on, go back to your godfather, and forget that the past month and a half ever happened?"

I could see Draco flush in my peripheral vision; I seemed to have struck a nerve. "Estella, you know that's not what I—"

"Oh, I know perfectly well what you mean," I interrupted, starting to seethe inside. "You miss your world more than ever, I know it, and you'd seize any chance to go back—even if you played yourself right into Voldemort's clutches!"

"_Don't say his name!"_ Draco hissed, but I ignored him.

"You've not given one thought to who Snape is working for now, have you? How do you know that it isn't some ploy to have you trapped and killed?"

"Severus would never do that—"

"And I'm sure you thought he'd never murder Dumbledore in cold blood, not when Dumbledore was begging for his life on top of the Astronomy Tower!"

"SHUT UP!" Draco roared, now towering over me. "DON'T YOU _DARE_ SAY ANYTHING ABOUT MY GODFATHER! YOU DON'T KNOW THE HALF OF IT!"

"Oh, really?" I stood so that we faced each other, nose-to-nose. "It doesn't matter that your mother and aunt put an Unbreakable Vow on him—he should have _died_ before he killed Dumbledore!"

The ensuing silence was punctuated by our heavy breathing. "Just give me the ring," Draco finally said.

My hand clenched tightly around the object in question. "No," I murmured. "Not until we've both had time to think this over calmly."

Draco gritted his teeth and turned away, walking over to the window again before whirling around with his wand drawn. _"Accio Portkey!"_

"_Protego!"_ I shouted in return. The ring wriggled in my grasp for a moment, but that was all.

Draco stared at me, then forced a harsh laugh. "I've taught you too well, haven't I?"

"Draco, just listen to me, please." I was so close to breaking down and begging on my knees; as much as I didn't want to admit it, I would miss him terribly if he went back, and I didn't want to lose him so quickly. "Please, at least wait until we can find out if Snape really means what he says or not. I'd—" I gulped before continuing. "I'd hate myself forever if you walked straight into a booby trap and got yourself killed."

"I've_been_ hating myself as it is!" Draco shouted, his voice cracking and twisting with emotion. "Every time—every time I think about how my parents are dead, and I didn't do anything to stop it! Every time I remember how the Dark Lord ordered that my parents never be placed in the Malfoy mausoleum, but rather left to rot in the dungeons of Azkaban—d'you think I'd rather be staying here, with no hope of ever going back?"

"At least you know it can't kill you!" I snapped.

I immediately regretted my words when I saw Draco stiffen and glance at his wand with a murderous look in his eye.

"Do you want to bet on that?" he muttered, almost to himself, before striding past me.

"Wait a minute—where are you going?" I stood up and made to follow, but found my feet stuck to the floor with a wave of his wand.

"To the devil!" he yelled over his shoulder, and disappeared around the corner. A moment later, I heard the bathroom door slam shut.

"What the—oh, bloody hey, _Finite Incantatem!"_ Fortunately for me, the common counterspell worked. With my feet now functional, I ran to the bathroom—and found the door locked.

"Draco!" I pounded on the door with both fists. "Let me in! NOW!"

"Go away!"

"Come on, just undo the damn lock and open the door!"

"Over my dead body!"

"That is _not_funny, Draco! OPEN IT ALREADY!"

"I mean it! Don't you know that you can use Avada Kedavra on yourself if you really mean it?"

I froze for a split second as his words registered, then cast the next spell at the door with all my might. _"ALOHOMORA!"_

The door swung open as if struck by a gale, revealing Draco facing me, his mouth set with determination and his wand aimed at his temple. The bathroom mirror made it look as if there were two Draco Malfoys, aiming their wands at each other through their ears. _"Avada Ke—"_

I lunged at him, a wordless cry stuck in my throat. _"—davra!"_

My outstretched arm hit his hand just as he finished the spell, sending the green light that shot out of the tip of his wand awry and into the bathroom mirror. We crashed to the floor together. . .

Just as the mirror exploded, covering the two of us with shards of glass and plaster. 

* * *

It was some minutes before we were able to extricate ourselves from the mess in the bathroom, and what we saw when we came out was not pretty.

Almost all of Draco's body was underneath mine, but his neck and face were still exposed, both of which were scratched and sliced to varying degrees. One piece of glass had even come dangerously close to his jugular vein; but fortunately, it only made a small pinscratch just below his chin.

My injuries, however, were more serious. My hands, back, neck, ankles, face—any part that was exposed received the full blast of the explosion. The two of us were covered in blood; but I'm afraid it was mostly mine, not Draco's, that stained our clothes. Draco had to help me limp out of the bathroom and into the kitchen where he could take care of our wounds; he was too distracted to notice when I slipped the ring that had caused so much trouble into the pocket of my jeans.

He didn't ask for the ring again that day—nor did he say a word about anything else. As soon as he had stopped my bleeding from becoming life-threatening, he went outside and locked himself in the tool shed for the rest of the afternoon and well into the night.


	10. Forgiveness and Farewell

Disclaimer: JK Rowling is one lucky woman to own all of the rights to Harry Potter, and I just want to know where she got enough Felix Felicis to make it possible. Also, the song that Estella uses is an excerpt from "Think of Me" from _The Phantom of the Opera._

* * *

"Draco? Will you come out already? It's almost ten o'clock, for goodness' sake!"

No answer. I sighed and set the tray of dinner on the front steps of the tool shed. Not a single noise had Draco made since isolating himself outside, and I was starting to get extremely worried. Had he finally succeeded in suicide?

"Draco Malfoy, if you don't unlock that Godforsaken door in the next thirty seconds, I swear to God, I will dismantle this shed myself until I get in there. Do you understand?"

Still no answer. I blew air from my nose furiously and sat down with a loud thump, already starting to count down to the shed's ultimate demise. But by the time I had reached twenty, I felt the magic surrounding the shed's door disappear; and at twenty-five, the door latch clicked as it unlocked. I immediately got to my feet and opened the door, relieved that at least Draco was alive and listening to me.

The shed's interior was lit by a magical bonfire in the middle of the room, its blue flames licking up and illuminating Draco's face, who was staring into the fire as sullenly as I had ever seen him. I sat down again, this time across from him, and studied what I could see of his face. The tear tracks streaking down his cheek were not lost on me.

I sighed. "Draco, will you just tell me what's wrong instead of locking yourself up and taking more drastic measures? I mean, I know you want to go back, but I just don't understand _why_—you know, with all the bad memories and…" Draco still hadn't moved, not even to acknowledge my presence in the room. "I'm just rambling, aren't I? Listen, Draco, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said what I did back there, it was insensitive, unfeeling, thoughtless—"

"I didn't let you in to have you talk my ears off," Draco growled. I smiled weakly; I took it as a good sign that he was feeling well enough to snap at me.

"Draco, I need to ask you—do you really want to go back to—your world?" I paused, then pulled the ring out of my pocket and studied it in my palm, as I had done many times inside the house over the course of the afternoon while I made my decision, before rolling it across the floor to Draco. "Because, as much as I think it's a bad idea… I'll let you."

The ring clattered to a stop at his feet. Draco slowly picked it up and looked at me wonderingly. "Why? Why the sudden change of heart?" he asked, more than a little scathingly on the last words.

"Well, you—you've been one of my closest friends in a long while, and you showed me magic and all, and—" I stopped up here, unsure of how he would take my next words. "—I love you too much to watch you suffer. Even if it means I won't ever see you again."

"Oh, Estella—" Draco moved closer to me. When I looked up, I found him studying me with some warmth in his eyes. "Is that why you didn't want me to leave? Because I might forget about you and never come back?"

"More that I didn't want you to _die_ and never come back. Draco, how can you trust Snape, after all he did? He killed Dumbledore—"

"Only because I couldn't, remember? If it weren't for him, I wouldn't be talking to you right now, because the Dark Lord would have had me rotting in Azkaban with my parents." Draco was now sitting on the same side of the fire as I was, shifting ever closer during our conversation. "He's really not a bad person—all right, he's snarky and caustic most of the time, but that's just normal—and he's as loyal to his family as the next guy. I'm sure I'll—just don't worry about me, Estella. I'll be able to take care of myself."

There was a long silence as I wrestled with my emotions. He looked so—content and—earnest as he sat next to me, waiting for my reaction. And there was no way I could hold him back from what he wanted; it was true, my soft spot for him and my conscience would never let me watch him suffer.

Finally, I nodded, even though it was the hardest motion for me to make. My eyes filled with unshed tears as I heard myself say, "All right. I won't worry. When do you want to leave?"

Draco turned and pulled me into an awkward hug. "I'll do it tomorrow," he said quietly into my shoulder. "Before either of us gets cold feet about it."

* * *

Saturday dawned cold and clear. It was completely incongruous with my emotions, as I thought it would be more appropriate if it were pouring rain or hail—even a blasted tornado would work. But no, the sun still shined over Cedar Mills, even though the star that had burst its way into my life was about to wink out, perhaps for good.

Since Draco had only his wand and tattered robes when he first came to our world, I was more than happy to let him take some of my father's clothes with him. Quite expectedly, he was very fond of the outfit I had chosen for him on his first day here, and that was what he chose to wear in order to go back. As a personal gift, I gave him a set of mittens that I had knitted myself, shortly after he had arrived; it was in Slytherin green and silver, and I had ironed on a small Hogwarts crest from the local sewing shop onto the backs of each of them.

And then, Draco asked if he could take two things with him as mementos of his time here. A picture of me, I could understand; and I gave him one, a small snapshot of me in the woods behind my house in the spring. But his other request truly puzzled me.

"Why _The Chamber of Secrets_?" I asked as I pulled the aforementioned book from the bookcase.

Draco shrugged and took the book from my hands. "Well, I'm still not quite done with it, for one thing. Besides, I like it better than the first one—I'm in it more."

I laughed and watched as he shrunk the book to a size where it would fit easily in his back pocket and slipped it in. I realized then that I must have finally resigned myself to his departure—I wouldn't have been acting like Draco was just going on a short holiday to the beach if I wasn't.

Suddenly, Draco turned to me and pulled me into his arms. "I know it's hard for you," he murmured into my hair. "But I just want you to know—it's just as hard for me to leave you without knowing if I'll ever see you again. And I never got to thank you for saving my life, either."

I laughed into his shoulder; but it was a sad laugh, without much mirth. "You don't need to thank me for that," I said quietly. "But would you be willing to do one thing for me instead?" And before he could respond, I began to sing.

_Think of me, think of me fondly,__  
When we've said goodbye.  
__Remember me once in a while—  
Please promise me you'll try._

_When you find that, once again, you long  
To take your heart back and be free—  
If you ever find a moment,  
Spare a thought for me…_

Draco nodded and tightened his hold around me. "It's not like I could ever forget you, anyway," he whispered, then tilted my head back so that our eyes met. I let my eyes close as he leaned in, waiting for the kiss that was sure to come—

"Estella? Are you home?"

Draco jerked back as if he'd been burnt, and I scowled as Dirk peered around the corner of the doorframe. My best friend was really a great guy, but there were some things he had yet to learn—like timing.

"Oh." Dirk froze as he took in the sight. "Were you—in the middle of something?"

"Yes," Draco growled.

"No," I squeaked at the same time.

Dirk glanced at Draco, then me. "Well? Which one is it?"

"Draco was just getting ready to—go home," I answered before Draco could interject. "He's found a way to get back to his universe."

Dirk looked a bit shocked for a moment; but he quickly recovered, moving forward and extending a hand to Draco. "Even though I would be lying if I said I'm sorry you're leaving…well, let's say that I'm sure you'll be missed." Dirk threw a glance in my direction, and I had the grace enough to blush.

Draco accepted Dirk's hand without hesitation; then, to my surprise, he released me and pulled Dirk into a masculine hug of his own. He muttered something—I wasn't sure, but I thought it sounded like, "Take care of her."

Dirk proceeded to follow Draco and I to the backyard, where Draco had planned to make his final departure. The sun was well up and shining over the pond by now; the bright light had me blinking for a few moments, rather like the owl that had delivered Draco's fateful letter. It distracted me from seeing Draco's face one last time… and from the throbbing pain in my heart that I knew wouldn't be gone anytime soon.

And then, as Draco pulled the ring that would send him home out of his pocket, I realized that there was one thing left that I wanted to give him.

"Wait!" I pulled a thin golden chain from beneath my neckline and unclasped it. On it was a small golden ankh, a present from my mother many birthdays ago. "This is an ankh, the ancient symbol of life for the Egyptians," I explained softly as I reached up and put it on Draco. "Wear it, and may it bring you good luck and long life wherever you may be, my magical friend. At least, may it let you remember our time together."

Draco fingered the small amulet before reaching into his collar and pulling out a silver chain of his own. Dangling from it was a round silver pendant, one side engraved with carvings of some sort. He took it off and fastened it around my neck as well.

"This is a Malfoy heirloom," he said to me, so that only I could hear him. "My father gave it to my mother when they were engaged, and she passed it onto me before she died. The Malfoy men have used it to mark their chosen ones since time immemorial." He brushed my hair to one side and smiled. "May it also let you remember our time together, my lovely star." Then, he lightly kissed me on the forehead—although I'm sure he was willing to do more, had Dirk not been watching.

Finally, with a nod to Dirk, and one last smile for me, Draco Malfoy slipped the Portkey ring on his finger…

And disappeared from my life in a whirlwind of color.

Suddenly, the pendant that Draco had given me grew hot on my chest. I lifted it up to my eyes, just in time to see the carvings shift as I watched. Where there once was a lone dragon enclosed by vines, now there was a dragon intertwined with a phoenix. I smiled; I had already seen my Patronus (and Draco's) once before when Draco had taught me how to cast it, so the symbolism was not lost on me. On this pendant, at least, we would always be together.

"Um, Estella?" I turned to my best friend, and he continued, "Was Draco trying to—kiss you when I came in? Like, on the mouth?"

I glared at him. There was no need to act so disgusted about it! "Yes," I sniffed. "And you ruined a perfectly good moment, thank you very much."

I was a bit surprised when he laughed and clapped me on the shoulder. "Well, I'm glad I stopped it, then. If he _had_ kissed you, who knows how long it would've taken to get him to leave!"

After a few moments, I laughed along with him; and with that, Dirk and I walked back into the house to enjoy a much-needed late breakfast together.


	11. Intermezzo

Disclaimer: All rights and responsibilities belong to JK Rowling, the true creator of the Harry Potter Universe. Unfortunately, my real name is not JK Rowling.

* * *

The bartender of the Hog's Head Inn looked up from the glass he was polishing when the door to the street opened. A man in a threadbare cloak entered, his much-patched robes visible through several gaping holes. His hair was streaked with gray, but his face was carved with lines of worry, not age. Several customers glanced at this interruption to their drinks and conversation; but they quickly turned away again, as this newcomer did not seem important enough of further consideration.

The bartender, however, watched this man as he walked straight to the bar and pulled out a stool. Perhaps he was concerned that the stranger would be unable to pay for his drinks, but he made no sign one way or the other.

"One Firewhiskey, if you please," the man said as he tossed a golden coin onto the counter, dispelling any worries about his monetary abilities. And yet, the coin was not a normal Galleon—one side was engraved with the image of a phoenix with wings outstretched.

The bartender examined the coin for a moment before tucking it into his pocket, rather than throwing it into the till with everyone else's payments.

The newcomer nodded his thanks as the bartender passed him a full glass of red liquid; he tossed it back in a single gulp, shaking his head rapidly as smoke poured from his ears. "By the way, I've been looking for a friend of mind around town," he casually said to the bartender. "You haven't seen him recently, by any chance?"

The bartender paused in thought. "Well, I might've," he replied. "Was he about this high—" The bartender held three fingers out at the desired height. "With a patch over this eye—" He formed a circle with his fingers and held it over his right eye. "And a small scar just so?" He traced a jagged line from cheek to jowl with his index finger.

The newcomer shook his head. The bartender shrugged. "Well, then, probably not. I can't remember every man that comes into this place, after all."

The stranger rose from his seat, thanked the bartender again for his drink, and exited the pub. But he didn't leave from the same door that he entered; rather, he used the door that led to the many guest rooms of the Hog's Head Inn. No one even cared to look up as he went.

Remus Lupin managed to hide his smile until the door had firmly closed behind him. Aberforth Dumbledore was a good man, and clever, too. He understood and reciprocated the signals perfectly, as the late Albus had said he would; no Death Eater would even suspect at the double entendres rippling beneath the surface of their short conversation. Remus immediately set about looking for the stairs, as Aberforth had said that his "friend" was currently in Room Three-Oh-One.

Having reached said room, Remus gently knocked on the weathered door before pushing it open, entering, and closing it behind him softly. Beyond the doorway lay a small guest room, furnished with only a battered wooden table (equipped with three full glasses of butterbeer) and several rickety chairs. In one of the chairs sat a dark figure, his hood pulled over his face. The flickering light from the lone candle on the table cast flying shadows over his mysterious features.

"You're late, Lupin," sneered the man without looking up. "Do you always keep your appointments waiting?"

"My apologies, Severus," Remus replied calmly, pulling out a chair and sitting down with a loud _creak_. "It's awfully difficult to convince your pregnant wife to let you go out and meet a known Death Eater in private, you know, even if he is the Headmaster of Hogwarts and all that."

Severus Snape snorted and tossed his head, shaking the hood off and revealing his face for the first time. "I wouldn't know," he drawled, "having never been in the situation before, and I am glad never to have that opportunity."

Remus ignored him. "Severus, why did you ask that Harry come as well? You do realize that he is as likely to kill you as lay eyes on you at this point?"

"Oh, as you tried to do when we first met?" Severus asked bitterly. "That was the point of this meeting—there are some things that he needs to know firsthand, not just have it passed on by hearsay. Your presence is necessary as an objective witness; I have a feeling Potter will believe your words more than mine." Severus sneered. "Believe me, if I could forego this meeting, I would, as I have no desire to meet Potter's eyes again."

"Yes, about that…" Remus tapped a finger on the table. "Why do you hate Harry so much?"

"Because he looks exactly like his arrogant git of a father," Severus immediately responded. "And he has all the attitude of his father's best friend."

"Now, now, Severus," Remus countered. "I don't think that's quite true. Harry's a good boy, and he certainly doesn't have either James' or Sirius' attitude. You mentioned his eyes a moment ago, and I think that's quite appropriate—Harry does respond to things in the same way his _mother _used to. Now, Lily—"

"_Don't say her name!"_

Remus paused, while Severus gazed at him with as pained an expression as if he had been struck in the stomach. "Right, then," Remus said slowly. "I think that answered my question."

As the two wizards held a staring match with each other, the door swung open; a brown-haired, blue-eyed young man entered the guest room and slammed the door shut. "Sorry I'm late, Remus," said the man, running both hands through his hair and over his face. As he spoke, the glamours that were covering him faded away, revealing a very mussed Harry Potter. "Hermione and Ron were taking forever to get to bed. What was it you needed to see me about?"

"Actually," Severus drawled before Remus could speak, "_I_ was the one who needed to see you."

Half a moment later, Severus found himself pinned against the wall with a furious Harry's wand pressed into his jugular. "Very good, Potter," he choked out. "I see you've been working on your reaction times. Mediocre, but better."

"Severus, don't push him," Remus warned. "Harry, put Severus down."

"But—but he's a traitor!" Harry yelled, his wand still at Severus' throat. "He killed Dumbledore—don't tell me you actually _trust_ the bastard?!"

"Harry, without Severus helping us, the Order of the Phoenix would have been ambushed by Death Eaters three times already," Remus said wearily. "And that's counting after Dumbledore passed on."

"Dumbledore didn't _pass on,_" Harry growled. "He was murdered, in cold blood, by Snape! I was there, I heard Dumbledore begging for his life on the Astronomy Tower!"

"That's where your incomplete mind falls flat, Potter," Severus gasped. "He was asking me to _kill_ him, not spare him! He knew he didn't have much time—he showed me his memories via Legilimency—that poison he drank in the cave was slowly killing him as it was! Not to mention that the curse on his hand was enough to have him dead by the end of the month, poison or no poison. I ended his life as painlessly as I could—he had made me promise him as much."

Remus nodded. "Severus is right, Harry—I saw the memories in a Pensieve. Now, would you please let him down? There are things he has to tell us, and I would like to finish this in a calm manner, if you would."

Harry grumbled, but did release Severus after several more seconds. The Headmaster massaged his throat before righting his chair and settling down again, opposite a glaring Harry. "Thank you kindly for not killing me yet, Potter," he said snidely. "I have information to give that you would prefer to have me alive to tell."

"Just spill it already," Harry muttered as he took a swallow from his glass of butterbeer. "I'm not in the mood for your little mind games tonight."

"As you wish." Severus drank from his own glass. "First of all, Draco Malfoy finally reappeared after months of fleeing the Dark Lord's wrath."

"And why should I give a damn about Ferret Boy?" Harry snarled.

"Harry, let him finish," Remus said, rubbing his face with both hands. "I just want to get back to Tonks soon."

Severus watched them dispassionately for a moment before continuing. "When he was, shall we say, _questioned,_ he told a very interesting story. It seems that he had managed to travel to a parallel universe—a theory that Dumbledore had worked on many years ago—and discovered a Muggle society aware of magic. Or, more specifically, they knew our society's history only as a work of fiction. He managed to bring one of these books back with him."

Severus reached into his robes and pulled a miniature book from his pocket. A wave of his wand later, and a full-size _Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets_ lay on the table in front of the three wizards. Remus picked it up and began flipping through the pages with interest.

"Frankly, Potter, I found it an interesting read," Severus commented to a now pale Harry. "I was especially curious about why you disrupted my class five years ago with Filibuster Fireworks—it would explain why an inordinate amount of boomslang skin disappeared around the same time."

"Severus, would you just tell us what this has to do with the price of an egg?" Remus asked tiredly, setting the book back on the table.

"I am getting there. During Draco's stay, he was taken in by a girl his age—a seeming Muggle who was recently orphaned. He discovered that she was most certainly not a Muggle. According to him, she had the most magical power he had ever seen and was a natural hand-caster. He taught her about magic over the course of several months, and she learned everything as if she had grown up in a pureblood household. And over those months, he seemingly fell in _love_ with her." Here Severus sneered on the word 'love.'

Harry made a great pretense of yawning. "So you called us here, in the middle of the night, to tell us about Malfoy's love life? How touching. Did they get married and live happily ever after, too?"

"Actually," Severus retorted with great asperity, "the Dark Lord was so displeased with Draco's conduct that he sent him off forthwith to join his ancestors." Harry's jaw dropped; and with some pleasure at that sight, Severus continued. "But that was not the point of my tale. Rather, Draco was especially fond of recalling that the girl—Estella, I believe—was a spitting image of one of the persons in this room."

Remus, who had just taken a drink, choked as he tried to swallow. Severus eyed him suspiciously for a moment before rummaging in his pockets again and retrieving a small photograph. He tossed it on the table, and both Harry and Remus leaned over to get a better look.

It was a Muggle picture, small and uncropped. A girl was standing in the midst of a forest, the leafy trees bright green during what must have been spring. The girl herself was smiling at the camera—or was it at the person operating it?—with one hand frozen in an eternal wave. Her black hair spilled down her shoulders, and her green eyes were alit with delight.

The glass in Remus' hand fell to the floor with a loud crash. But Remus ignored it. "No," he whispered. "No, it can't be—she's dead, that's what Dumbledore said—"

"Hang on—she looks just like _me!_" Harry exclaimed, obviously shocked. "Wait—how could this possibly—is this some type of joke?!" He stared at Severus accusingly; but the Headmaster just returned a smug gaze.

"Harry," Remus said shakily. "There's something I should probably tell you. I never did before, because Dumbledore—we didn't think it would make a difference. When Lily discovered that she was pregnant, she and James opted on not undergoing magical tests because they wanted it to be a surprise. Well, once Lily went into labor, all of us had the biggest surprise of our lives…"


	12. The Magical Trunk

Disclaimer: As we have had excellent proof recently that JK Rowling's law squad is quite effective, I would like to reiterate the fact that I do not own a single thing from the Potterverse. And now I shall go change my name and sell my house…

* * *

The freezing Minnesota winter takes months to thaw out, as any resident of the northern Midwest understands. And so it was that we of the Loon State shivered and slushed through the snows of March and April, waiting and hoping for spring to finally arrive in May. We weren't disappointed. The first of May was the most beautiful spring day one could ever have imagined, and the snows soon faded into the back of our memory.

But one person, no matter how long it was since I had last seen him, could never fade in my memory. I wore the pendant Draco had given me at all times, fingering it lovingly as I lay in bed at nights, wondering how he was, wherever he might be. Draco would have been proud to learn that both Dirk and I had incorporated magic into our lives to the best of our abilities; my hand-casting skills allowed me to use magic at any time, while Dirk was limited to Apparition, which both of us found extremely useful for getting to classes on time at the last possible moment. And, of course, I made good use of the broom that Draco had made for me. Dirk nicknamed it the Draconis 2000, and he and I would take turns flying it in a secluded park on the weekends.

But all was not right in our world. I missed Draco, terribly, even as I knew that he would probably be happier where he was now. And Dirk…Dirk had had some family issues of his own.

One chilly evening in late March, I was reading in the living room when there came a furious pounding on the front door. I jumped up and ran to the foyer, glancing at the clock on my way out and wondering who could possibly want anything at half-past eleven at night.

Dirk stood in front of me, panting and doubled over to catch his breath, when I opened the door. He looked up at me, his eyes full of unshed tears. "Mum—she's gone," he choked. "I think—I think she's been murdered."

I immediately led him in and sat him down in the kitchen while I made us some tea. Dirk explained then that he had come home late from his job as a shelver at the local library, only to find his mum not at home as she should have been that night. He peered into the kitchen to find it a total warzone: dishes shattered and boxes upended, with dark smears on the linoleum spattered throughout the floor, as if someone had hastily tried to wipe away a large spill. In the middle of the room lay a long carving knife, its glittering blade marred by the same dark liquid that stained the kitchen floor.

Dirk found his stepfather sitting in the living room, resting in a drunken stupor before the television set. When asked what happened, Jim Ewell had sputtered something out about Dirk's mother "being a crazy whore" and "wouldn't let her live a freak." Then, before he passed out again, he had looked Dirk in the eye and threatened "to take care of" Dirk in the same manner "if the bitch's craziness shows up in the pup, too." Dirk was terrified and fled the apartment, taking only what he could fit into his school backpack and all the money—most of which he and his mother had earned—that he could find. At that point, all I could do was wrap my arms around my best friend as he sobbed into my shoulder and wonder what in the world could have possibly happened to Ms. Vandimar.

The next day, I accompanied Dirk to the police station as his moral support, watching from the background as he told his story to the detective on duty. The detective was only marginally sympathetic, as Dirk's stepfather was one step ahead of us: he had filed a missing person report the previous afternoon, claiming that his wife had disappeared from the apartment with signs of "small resistance" in the kitchen. Mr. Ewell's alibi was that he was "out working" all day and arrived home late that night to find Mrs. Vandimar missing; but in my (and Dirk's) humble opinion, if Mr. Ewell was doing anything remotely productive that day that wasn't illegal, then Dirk and I were both Squibs.

Dirk, understandably, didn't want to live with his stepfather any longer—Mr. Ewell didn't particularly like his stepson, and Dirk had told me before that his mother was often the only thing that kept his stepfather from becoming a violent drunk. It didn't take a genius to understand that Dirk just wouldn't be safe if he stayed at "home" whilst the police ambled through their investigation. And so it was that Dirk moved in to live with me that very day. After all, Dirk was my best friend, and that's what friends are for, right?

Also understandably, Dirk was very much in a state of depression for weeks over his mother's mysterious (and frankly suspicious) disappearance. He would constantly study and do homework, barely talking to anyone and very nearly dropping his music practicing altogether. When our college application results came in a few days after he moved in with me—I was accepted to the University of Chicago, and Dirk had been granted a full scholarship to Indiana University–Bloomington for their music program—he hardly spared the acceptance letter a second glance. His apathy was quite frightening to watch for someone as close to him as I was.

It took all of my maneuvering and cajoling to take his mind off of his grief for any extended interval; I knew from my own experience that it was never a good thing to wallow in sorrow for long periods of time. In one of my latest efforts, as May blossomed into a beautiful Minnesota spring, I convinced Dirk to help me clean out the house in a spring-cleaning tradition my parents used to observe faithfully every year. Most of the time, they did it while I was away at school; thus, this marked the first year I would be cleaning the house, and I hoped having Dirk with me would help the both of us leave our mourning behind us somewhat.

It worked, to a certain extent. As we cleaned the first two floors, Dirk started to loosen up a bit, eventually laughing along with me as we shared memories of what we used to do with this knick-knack or that, or of my parents' reactions when they found me all decked out in Dad's tweed (complete with false moustache) for Cross-Dressing Day at school. It took us quite a while to make it through the bedrooms on the second floor, and I was thankful for Dirk's support whenever the emotions threatened to overwhelm me. But as we approached the attic late that afternoon, I was more than a little apprehensive; this was my parents' storage area and private realm, and I had never been up there before. Who knows what I would find?

The door to the attic, to my surprise, was locked. But Dirk quickly reminded me that I was a witch, after all, and an _Alohomora_ did the trick to let us in. We spent the first few moments coughing out the dust that hung heavily in the air and letting our eyes adjust to the dim light that filtered through one sooty window. It was as small as attics come; Dirk had to hunch over slightly to let his head brush the rafters of the ceiling rather than poke a hole through it. There frankly wasn't much up there: an old mannekin wearing a faded print-floral summer dress, some file boxes stacked in one corner, a leaning bookshelf that had probably seen better days. I wandered over to the mannekin, examining the dress from all angles and imagining what Mum would have looked like wearing it.

"Hey, Estella?" Dirk interrupted my daydream. "This belong to your parents? It's really antique. Wonder what's inside?"

I turned to see Dirk knelt beside an old steamer trunk that lay half-hidden in the shadows of the attic. It was wooden, that much I could see, and it was ornately carved with some sort of floral pattern. I came over and dropped to one knee beside my friend, but I could see it no better in the twilight dark of the attic.

"_Lumos!"_ I whispered, and a soft yellow glow lit up my outstretched hand, casting its light on the trunk before me. The floral pattern was that of repeated fleur-de-lis; two carved lions guarded the lock, their ivory teeth visible in a mouth open mid-roar. I let my non-illuminating hand trace the soft lines of the wood before moving to the cursive script that flowed beneath it: _LMEP_, it read.

"Whose initials are those?" Dirk asked without taking his eyes off the trunk.

I shrugged. "Dunno. It's not Mum or Dad, that's for sure. D'you think it's locked shut?"

In response, Dirk reached out for the latch—then pulled away with a yelp. "It bit me!" he exclaimed with more than a bit of indignation. "The blasted thing bit me!"

I peered at his bleeding finger. "Come on, Dirk, it couldn't have _bitten _you. It's a bloody trunk, for Pete's sake. Probably just a rough edge or something." To demonstrate my point, I reached out and touched the lock myself. I was shocked when the lock unlatched of its own accord; the trunk lid flew open by itself as well, revealing a yawning dark tunnel, complete with a step-ladder, that led much farther down than any normal steamer trunk should have been able to.

Dirk and I stared down at the tunnel in stunned silence for a full minute. "Um," was all I could come up with. "Do you want to go first?"

* * *

First Dirk, then I, carefully picked our way down the rickety stepladder that led down into the bowels of the trunk. The ladder groaned under our combined weight, and I silently prayed that it wouldn't crack any time soon—we still needed to get back up to the surface, after all. My _Lumos_ charm was still in effect, and that provided an eerie golden light around us as we slowly wended deeper and deeper.

Dirk leaped down to solid ground first and surveyed the area as I joined him. "I can't believe this," he said in awe. "It just—it shouldn't exist! This is amazing!" I raised my glowing right hand and had to agree with him; if I didn't believe in magic, I would have sworn that I'd just gone 'round the twist.

Suddenly, torches flared to light around us, and I saw that we were in a medium-size room with a high ceiling, the walls lined with stocked bookshelves and an old-fashioned painting of a green moor. Near one of the walls was an antique work-desk with a single piece of parchment resting on top. I walked over and picked up the paper, cancelling the _Lumos _charm as I did so—and nearly dropping the paper when I read the first line. Dirk followed behind me and peered over my shoulder to read along with me.

It was in my mother's fine script, and it was a letter addressed to me. Slowly, I sank to the floor as I read through it.

_My dear Estella,_

_If you are reading this, I can only assume that either Juan _(that was Dad) _or I have told you about the Wizarding World and the truth behind your past. If not, if we never had the chance to tell you, or if you discovered magic all on your own…this letter is meant to answer some of the questions I have no doubt you have come up with in that inquisitive mind of yours._

_First of all, you must understand (though you may have already realized by this point) that Juan is a wizard, and I am a witch. We both studied at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (Juan's parents moved from inner Spain to England just in time for his acceptance letter to arrive) in another time, another place—and by that I mean it quite literally. Our magical world, the world of Hogwarts and Wizarding Britain, exists on a different dimension from the one you grew up in. That is how magic and its users cannot be seen or detected by non-magical peoples: we share the same world and space, but the shift in time dimensions keeps us irrevocably separate. Only the great Albus Dumbledore was able to piece together a way to connect the two dimensions, thus allowing us to move from our old world to this one. Neither Juan or I kept our old names, by the by, nor have you—but I can't spoil the mystery for you, can I, darling? I know you'd want to figure it out for yourself, if you haven't already discovered it._

_Secondly, you are our daughter in spirit, but—oh, Estella, please do not take this the wrong way!—not by blood. _(At this, my hand began to tremble violently, making the rest of the letter hard to read.) _Your parents, especially your mother, were closest friends of mine at Hogwarts; and I was honored to be named godmother to both you and your twin brother. However, times were difficult during the First War, and both of your parents were soon murdered, your mother killed in the very same nursery where _

_you and your brother slept. Your brother was sent off to live with his mother's Muggle relatives, at Albus' request, while Juan and I were given custody over you. We were delighted to have you with us, and we swore to raise you as our own—and I hope we have succeeded at this with you, who has been nothing short of a dream come true._

_This trunk belonged to your blood mother and contains what possessions of hers and your father's that I was able to collect after their deaths. If you look in the first desk drawer of this desk, you may find some photos and clippings of certain interest to you. The second drawer holds the very items on your parents when they died, as well as some old trinkets of mine and Juan's. Use them very well, my dearest star, and know that Juan, I, and both of your real parents are proud of everything you have grown up to be, and will be forever proud of whatever you may become in the future._

_Forever my love (and Juan's, as well),_

_Tabitha Fields Bonavideo  
Acts 9:36_

For many long moments after I was through reading it, I stared at the letter without really seeing anything. I barely noticed Dirk move to the library, rummaging through the many books on the wall in search of something, I wasn't sure what. But I was too busy trying to hold back my tears to wonder at anything else.

I was adopted? Juan and Tabitha Bonavideo, the two people whom I had loved like my own parents, were really my _godparents?_ Why were they waiting to tell me for so long—they never even got around to it, thanks to that damn car accident. On top of it, they both were magical, as were my real parents…which meant that I wasn't a Muggleborn-slash-Mudblood, as Draco had accused me of being once upon a time. It was a refreshing revelation, but one that I desperately wished any of my parents could have been alive to relate to me, rather than forcing me to divine it from an old letter.

I quickly wiped my eyes dry as Dirk sat down next to me, a thick leatherbound tome in his hands. He passed it to me wordlessly, and I was surprised to see that it was a copy of the Bible. Dirk had flipped it open to the Book of Acts, Chapter 9, Verse 36: the very quotation that Mum—I mean, Tabitha—had signed off her letter with.

_In Joppa, there was a disciple named Tabitha, which is translated Dorcas._

Realization struck me like a heavy weight in the gut. "Holy crap," I swore. Dirk quirked an eyebrow, not quite understanding, so I continued. "My mum's maiden name was Tabitha Fields. Mum was born in the Harry Potter universe. Tabitha is another name for Dorcas. Do you remember anything from Book 5?"

Dirk thought for a moment before his eyes widened. "And Fields is just a synonym of—"

"Meadowes," I finished. "Dorcas Meadowes was a member of the Order during the First War, one who was killed by Voldemort personally, her body never found. It was all a ruse, I bet Dumbledore came up with it…so that she and Dad could leave their world and hide in ours with me."

"Isn't it funny that we're standing inside a room hidden in a magical trunk, and we're talking about Harry Potter as if all of these things really existed?" Dirk quipped. "Isn't that a major cause for concern in most areas?"

But I didn't laugh at his joke. Rather, I turned my attention to the antique desk, yanking out the first drawer and staring down at the moving picture that lay there, on top of what looked like multiple newspaper clippings. I slowly picked it up and studied this photo of eight young men and women waving back at me. All were dressed in black wizarding robes, the boys wore red-and-gold striped ties, and behind them loomed a large castle that could very well have once belonged to British royalty. Juan and Tabitha/Dorcas, my two foster parents, I easily recognized in this picture; they stood in the back row of faces, their arms around each other, smiling contentedly. On one side was another happy couple, both brown-haired and round-faced; and on the other stood a slightly chubby boy, whose nervous eyes constantly darted from one edge of the picture to the other. But Dirk's gasp from next to me—"Good Lord, they look _just like you!_"—shifted my attention from the back row to the front.

The front row was composed of three young men, their arms slung over each others' shoulders, flanking a single girl in the middle. The boy on the right edge had his jaunty dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and a coy smile plastered on his face; the boy on the left edge was already beginning to go gray, but his smile was still young and engaging—he reminded me a bit of Dirk. But Dirk was commenting on the pair in the middle, the young man with jet black hair that stuck up in all directions like mine did in the morning, and the girl with rich auburn hair and almond-shaped eyes as vivid a green as mine.

I sharply inhaled and flipped the picture over to check the back. Sure enough, my mother—Tabitha—Dorcas had written the event and the names on the back in black marker, just as she always did with old photographs. I blinked several times to make sure I was reading the names correctly—it was rather like reading a list straight from the Harry Potter Lexicon.

_Hogwarts, Class of 1977, Gryffindor House  
Graduation Day_

_Frank Longbottom  
Alice Longbottom  
Dorcas Meadowes  
Ricardo Buenaventura  
Peter Pettigrew  
Sirius Black  
James Potter  
Lily Evans  
Remus Lupin_

I recited the list over and over in my head, slowly digesting the fact that I was indeed Harry Potter's twin sister, and that my parents had been killed by Voldemort just sixteen-and-a-half years ago. Dirk, meanwhile, rummaged through the clippings and other photos in the top drawer, finally pulling several out at once and reading from them aloud.

"Here's a wedding announcement: _'Lord James Leonis Potter and Miss Lily Marie Evans are to be wed in the Chapel of the Lions in Godric's Hollow on the twenty-fifth of December in the year nineteen hundred and seventy-seven…'_ Blast, aren't they formal! Hey, Estella, I guess that makes you a Peeress of the Realm, doesn't it? Oh, man, I'd love to see your neighbors' faces if they find out! And this is your birth announcement: _'Lord James Potter and his wife Lily of Godric's Hollow are pleased to announce the birth of twins on the thirty-first of July in the year nineteen hundred and eighty. Their names are Anne Lily and Harry James Potter—_'" I gasped at that—my current full name is Estella _Anne_ Bonavideo!

Setting down the picture on top of Dorcas' letter, I reached out for the second desk drawer and pulled it open. Dirk fell silent, respectfully, as we gazed upon the four lengths of wood that rested there on a soft blue cushion. The magic surrounding them was so concentrated that it was tangible, to me at least.

"Ebony, willow, mahogany, and what looks like cherry," Dirk muttered. Inwardly, I was proud of my nerdy friend for being able to name the woods just by looking at them. "Which belonged to whom, do you think?"

"Willow was Lily's, and mahogany was James'—_Sorcerer's Stone,_" I replied automatically. "That leaves the ebony and cherry to Mum or Dad." I still felt awkward about calling James and Lily my parents—I lived with them for a year and don't even remember them, for crying out loud! But blood _is _thicker than water…

Dirk stretched out a hand and picked up the closest one, lifting it out and giving it a swish in the air. The golden sparks that came out from the end made me take a step away from my best friend. He grinned. "Mind if I borrow one of these? I can see how it could be very useful…and this mahogany one seems to like me."

"Sure—just try and take care of it, will you? I'm kinda attached to it—it _was_ mine, after all."

The voice that answered was male, British, and most definitely _not_ mine. I whirled around to find James Potter, my true father, barely aged from his graduation photo, leaning against the frame of the scenic portrait that hung on the opposite wall, a broomstick dangled carelessly over his free shoulder. I could almost hear Dirk's jaw drop behind me. I myself could see that the resemblance between us was striking.

"James?" I breathed. _"Dad?"_

The man in the painting nodded and set down his broom. "Yep, that's me. I used to hang in the Hall of Lords of the House of Potter, but Dor and Ricky moved me here after—after I died. Jeez, it's been nearly two decades, and it's still not a whit easier to think of myself as dead! So, you're Anne, huh? Welcome to the Potter family—or what's left of it, anyway. Where's Harry? Is he with you?"

I shook my head. "He's still in the magical world—my foster parents moved to the Muggle world to hide me, I think."

"Ah, yes…" James thought for a moment. "That's right, Albus had mentioned something about that. He must've told Dor and Ricky about that secret passage between worlds he was working on. Glad to see it worked. So, Voldemort doesn't know about you, then?"

"I doubt he even knows that my world exists," I replied. It felt so _surreal_ to be talking to a painting of my dead father—my dead _real_ father, even. My voice cracked on the next question. "Is—is Mum there? In the painting with you?"

James sighed. "No. We weren't married yet when I sat for this painting, and I don't even know if magical paints will hold for Muggleborns—it's never been tried before, that's for certain."

"Wait a sec," Dirk said slowly. "If you were painted before Estella—I mean, Anne—was born, then how could you even know about her?"

My father squinted at my best friend, as if trying to get a better look. "Did anyone ever tell you that you're a dead ringer for Remus Lupin? You even sound like him…anyway, to answer your question: Magical portraits only become active after the subject dies. Immediately after death, the soul gets transferred to whatever vessel is left of the deceased—specifically, the painting. Which is why I know everything about me that happened before Halloween of 1981. So, tell me, what's happened since then?"

Dirk and I proceeded to talk to the painting for the next four hours, describing everything that we could remember from the Harry Potter books. James—Dad didn't know that Lily—Mum was killed shortly after he was while defending Harry against Voldemort, and that stunned him for a while. If paintings were able to shed tears, I know Dad would have made the entire portrait soggy. It also visibly hurt him to know that Sirius had passed through the veil, still wrongly accused of a crime he didn't commit, while the real traitor was still running free and serving Voldemort the last time I had heard from the Wizarding World.

But soon, we were able to get him as chipper as the real James Potter ever was, telling him how Remus had become the Defense professor for a year (and was the best in the business); how Harry had led Gryffindor to victory for the House Cup, Quidditch Cup, and Tri-Wizard Tournament; and how Harry had been successfully using the Invisibility 

Cloak since first year, the Marauder's Map since third, and was the best and youngest Seeker Hogwarts had ever seen. (A loud whoop and amusing victory dance followed that revelation.) Dad listened to us eagerly before regaling us with stories of his own: the reign of mischief by the Marauders during their years at Hogwarts; his wedding to Mum on Christmas Day after they had graduated; and the birth of both myself and Harry. Apparently, Mum had refused to undergo magical tests to predetermine the gender of the baby, as she wanted to find out the Muggle way; this led to a great shocker when I popped out first, with Harry trailing close on my heels. Dumbledore, especially, was concerned about my unexpected appearance, but Dad still wasn't sure exactly why he was so worried.

We talked and laughed and exchanged stories for hours, though it only felt like minutes had passed; when I next looked at my wristwatch, while stifling a rowdy yawn, it was nearly midnight. Dirk and I bid Dad farewell, who was disappointed to see us go.

"Feel free to come back any time," he said to us, spreading his arms to gesture at the room around us. "It's been so long since I've talked to anyone human, and it does me worlds of good to see you, Anne. You really are like your mum, in so many ways…Lily would be as proud of you as I am, I'm sure of it."

I sniffled a little. "Thanks, Dad," I replied softly. "I'll be sure to visit, as often as I can." Then, with a last wave to the painting of my father, I followed Dirk (who had pocketed Dad's old wand) onto the ladder and climbed out of the magical trunk. Once I had fully clambered back to the world of the attic, I turned around and stuck my head back into the opening. "I love you, Dad!" I yelled, relishing in the echoes that surrounded me.

"Love you right back, Anne!" came Dad's muffled response, and I closed Mum's trunk with a smile that would make the Cheshire Cat look downright depressed.


	13. In the Nick of Time

Disclaimer: I don't own the Potterverse and never will—unless I discover that I'm JK Rowling's mysterious fourth cousin twice removed or something. Yeah, like _that's_ going to happen.

* * *

Every day after Dirk and I discovered that I was indeed a Potter, I made sure to save some time to go up to the magical trunk in the attic and chat with the portrait of my father. Dad was barely four years older than I when he died, so it was more like talking to the big brother I never had than talking to my father. Still, it was so much fun to learn about the family history straight from the mouth of the founding Marauder…

Dad was delighted to learn of my natural hand-casting abilities, but he wasn't as pleased to find out who had helped me come to that realization. He was even less amused when I declared that I was in love with Draco Malfoy—another perk of talking to Dad's painting was that I felt more free in revealing my deepest emotions than I would have been if he were alive and real. But to his credit, Dad didn't have much to say other than warning me about the Malfoys' love of Dark Magic, something I was already quite aware of. Then, he gave me that trademark charming smile of his and said that if I truly loved Draco and he loved me back, then what more could any father ask for his daughter's happiness?

Thank goodness Dad had passed on _after_ growing out of his "arrogant, bullying toerag" stage.

One day, a week or so into our daily meetings, Dad asked me to cast some spells at him. I was skeptical, to say the least. "Whatever for?" I asked in return. "What if I hurt you?"

"Anne, love, nothing's going to hurt me at this point," was his cheerful response. "I've been long dead and inanimate, remember? Just point at the frame and say, '_Duplicato!_' It's just a simple spell."

"But why would you want me to double you?"

Dad rolled his eyes. "Honestly, you're exactly like Lily—she wouldn't stop asking questions, either. Anne, it's not dangerous—just do it already!"

I shrugged and pointed at the golden frame surrounding his painting. "_Duplicato!_"

Just like I expected, a second frame identical to the first, complete with the Scottish moor background, appeared on the floor below the original painting. "Now, use the Shrinking Charm to make it smaller," Dad instructed me. "Small enough to fit into a pocket or something."

"_Reducio!_" The frame shrunk smaller and smaller, until it was just the right size to fit in my palm. I bent over and picked it up. "Dad, why'd you want to shrink—Dad?" When I looked up at the large frame, my father had completely disappeared from the painting.

"Down here, Anne!" shouted a tinny version of his baritone, and I looked down to find a miniature James Potter waving at me from the duplicated frame I currently held in my hand. "It's perfect! I can come with you anywhere now!"

"But, Dad," I felt compelled to ask. "Why _would_ you want to come with me everywhere? A girl's got to have some privacy, you know."

"Well, I was thinking—my dream was to be there when both you and Harry graduate from school. And since Harry's out of the loop at the moment, I was hoping…"

Which is the reason why I carried a small, rectangular portrait frame around my neck to my high school graduation a week and a half later. To my chagrin, Dad insisted on hiding beneath my green graduation gown during the entire ceremony. I half-teased him of being a pervert for trying to get inside his own daughter's robes, but he just laughed and swore that he would keep his eyes strictly to the cloth in front of him. "Besides," he added with a playful smirk, "nothing's going to make me dishonor the memory of your mum. She had the best-looking bosom of all the girls at Hogwarts, as I should well know. Hell, maybe I _should_ try to compare you and her some more…"

I groaned and slapped myself on the forehead. "I'm storing that in the file labeled, 'Too Much Information,'" I grumbled. "And keep your eyes to yourself, thank you very much!" Dad merely chuckled as I climbed out of the trunk for that evening.

* * *

The days following graduation sped by in a blur. It was delightful to have some free time once more; I even had the chance to work on some of my Harry Potter fanfiction. I had started to work on a story about Draco and the time we had spent together—after all, it was so fantastically unbelievable that no one would recognize the truth in the fiction at all. But what with Dirk's family problems and my recent discoveries, I had to put my writing on hold for quite a few months, much to my disappointment.

And as it turned out, I wouldn't be having much time to write fanfiction in the near future, either.

Dirk had gone to working nearly full-time at the local library; and since the library was nearly two miles away from our rural house, he often wouldn't get back until very late. Thus, I was left to my own devices for the entirety of the day. On most sunny afternoons, I chose to tend the garden plots that my foster mum had created when I was just a toddler. It was a relaxing activity, and I especially loved the late afternoons, when the creatures of the nearby forest were relatively quiet—that was when I could enjoy the most time to my own thoughts.

On this particular day in the last week of May, it was promising to be another fine afternoon to garden. I put on my special leather gloves and picked up my trowel to attack the latest invasion of crabgrass. But no sooner had the metal touched the plant than a loud shout arose from the woods, followed by a most pitiful howling. I frowned and dropped the trowel, shedding my gloves and heading to the forest in the direction of the noise. If it was Rodriguez and his goons again, I planned to give him a bit more than a Furnunculus Curse to remember me by…

Sure enough, in a clearing very close to the one I had chased him from when Draco was still around, Rodriguez and a few of his thugs were laughing and pointing at their latest victim, a stray dog that was trying to hide its face with one of its paws. The poor thing looked half-starved and more than half-beaten; it was all black fur and bones, even though it was tall enough to come to my waist, and the way it limped and whimpered when it moved did more than enough to show me how injured it was. My blood boiled, and I would have revealed myself from my hiding place in the trees had Rodriguez not spoken up.

"Well, boys, this dog isn't quite tame yet, is he?" he asked his followers in Spanish. "Let's give him a little motivation, eh? Did you bring the paint thinner, Gonzales?"

"It's here, _patrón,_" one boy replied gruffly, and I was horrified to see him toss the unopened bucket to his "boss." As Rodriguez laughed and proceeded to pry the paint thinner open, I knew I had no time to lose.

"So, Rodriguez, how's your arse doing these days?" I snidely asked him in Spanish as I stepped into the clearing. Two thugs tried to stop me, but a gentle Banishing Charm sent them staggering back several feet. "I heard you got some sexually-transmitted disease, no cure for it—was it herpes or gonorrhea?"

"I have no idea what you're on, Bonavideo," Rodriguez snarled back. "But I'd suggest making your pretty legs run out of here as fast as you can, unless you want to have some _hot dog_ for dinner tonight."

My breath hitched, but I moved in front of the dog as if I had not a fear in the world. "Go ahead and try it, Rodriguez," I said loudly, bending over and wrapping my arms around its trembling form. "Just try, and I'll have the police on you for animal abuse. You really don't want to mess with me, I'm warning you."

"What, you think I'm afraid of _Señorita_ Save-The-World?" Rodriguez smirked and ripped off the lid of the paint thinner, then pulled out a cheap cigarette lighter. "Fine, if you want to join the dog, be my guest. One less witness, I guess—"

"_Expelliarmus!_" I shouted, pointing my finger at the lighter just as he clicked it on. Now was not the time to be worrying about the Magic Secrecy Act—I could always go back and Obliviate him, after all.

The lighter flew out of his hand and landed a few feet away, igniting the dry grass and starting a small fire there. Rodriguez swore and made to attack me with his bare hands, but he'd forgotten that the paint thinner was sitting right by his feet. He tripped over it, knocking the bucket onto its side and sending a veritable river of turpentine right in the direction of the small brushfire that had begun to burn ferociously.

Without another thought, I tightened my hold on the dog and Apparated out of there, concentrating with all of my might on the kitchen of my own house. Exactly one second after the dog and I landed with a loud _thump_ on the linoleum floor, there was an even louder _boom_ that reverberated through the entire house, making the window glass rattle against its panes. It made me very thankful that Apparition was very near to being instantaneous.

Hearing a faint whimper at my feet, I looked down at the poor dog as it sniffed about my shoes. "Hey there, boy," I addressed it gently. "You're looking pretty bad. Did they do all that to you?" The dog looked up at me with baleful gray eyes—very strange-looking for a dog, I thought—and then seemed to shudder from the inside out.

A moment later, I was looking at a tall, emaciated man in tattered robes who was sprawled across the kitchen floor, groaning and twitching in pain as he tried to roll over onto his side.

"Holy crap," I breathed, dropping to my knees and helping him sit up by leaning against me. "_You're an Animagus!_ Who the hell are you?!"

The man raised his half-glazed eyes to mine. "Hullo there, Anne," he rasped. "You don't have a bit of water for your old godfather, do you?" And then, as I stared at him in total shock, Sirius Black fainted dead away in my arms.

* * *

"Cedar Mills Public Library, Shelving Department. This is Dirk speaking. How may I help you?"

After I had levitated Sirius up to the guest bedroom—it barely tasked any of my strength, he was so light—I called the fire department to report a "mysterious" explosion in the woods behind my house. A few minutes later, after I had placed some soup on the stove to boil, I made another phone call, this time to the library.

"Dirk, it's me. Listen, can you get off work, like, now? Something big happened here, and I think you'd want to be around…"

"Estella? I mean, Anne—you sound really shaken up." Dirk's concern crackled across the phone line. "Is everything all right?"

"Um…not really. I just rescued my godfather from Rodriguez' clutches, if you'd really like to know. Nearly blew us to smithereens with turpentine and a lighter. Rodriguez did, I mean. And my godfather is looking a right mess at the moment."

There was silence on the other end for half a minute. "You're telling me you found someone who supposedly _died_ in a _book _two years ago? OK, I know this has been a very strange five months, but this is getting to be too much. And then Rodriguez tried to kill you on top of it all?"

"More like he was trying to blow up a stray dog for fun, and I just happened to get in his way."

Dirk sighed. "Well, what happened, then?"

"I'm not sure, as I got the hell out of there before he could blow us up. I think he succeeded in making the thing explode, though—I could feel the aftershock here, in the kitchen."

Dirk didn't answer for several moments. "I think I can swap shifts with someone here," he finally said. "But it's going to be nearly an hour before I can get back. Is that too late?"

"Dirk, Sirius may be in bad shape, but I don't think he'll die on our hands anytime soon. Besides," I lowered my voice, "_are you a wizard or not?_"

"Oh. Right. See you soon, then." And Dirk hung up.

Five minutes later, as I ladled some chicken soup into a bowl on a tray, Dirk appeared in the middle of the kitchen with a loud _POP!_ "I'm glad _someone_ finally remembered," I commented as I hefted the tray in my arms.

"Oh, do shut up," Dirk grumbled as he followed me up the stairs to the bedroom where Sirius was.

When I gently pushed open the door, Sirius immediately opened his eyes and struggled to sit up. He grimaced and gave up as I set the tray down on the bedside table. "Merlin's most respected and holy underwear," he groaned. "I've not felt this sore since Azkaban. This is probably worse, actually."

Dirk and I helped prop him up into a sitting position before I balanced the tray on his lap. No sooner had I done so than Sirius picked up the spoon and attacked the soup before him with great vigor. I moved a chair closer to the head of the bed and sat down, Dirk doing the same next to me. "Yeah, those thugs really are a menace to society," I said. "Hopefully, they won't be any longer, whichever way you think about it. How much did they hurt you before I arrived?"

Sirius chuckled between mouthfuls. "Not much. They beat me about the head with some sticks and chased me through the woods—but Prongs always used to say that my head was so thick, it wouldn't hurt me if a Bludger hit it. I would've taken any of them easily, but food's been rather difficult to find these days…people aren't as friendly to strays as they used to be." Sirius looked around the room, my parents' old bedroom. "Where are Dor and Ricky? They're the ones who brought you here, right?"

I nodded, a lump forming in my throat. Even after discovering that they weren't really my parents, the pain from their deaths was still strong. "They passed away last Christmas," I sighed. "Muggle car accident."

Sirius stared at me before closing his eyes and leaning back into the pillows resignedly. "Well, that just leaves me and Moony, I guess," he said to himself. "Merlin's beard, Gryffindor Class of '77 didn't have much longevity, did it?"

"How well did you know them?" Dirk asked then, leaning forward. "Estella's parents, I mean."

Sirius sat upright with a start and turned his eyes on Dirk. After a moment, he shivered and shook himself a bit. "Sorry…you just reminded me of—someone I knew from home," he muttered, then raised his voice to answer the question. "Well, her blood father was my best friend, and I knew both of her foster parents fairly well—it's hard not to, when you're living in the same dormitory for seven years."

"Come on, Pads," a muffled voice from my jeans pocket shouted. "You knew Dor more than 'fairly well'—at least, I seem to recall you describing her anatomy in great detail one morning. What do you say to _that?_"

Sirius' eyes widened. "Prongs? Is that—is that really you?"

I guiltily pulled out the miniature painting from my pocket, and both Sirius and Dirk gaped at the tiny James Potter waving at them. "You bet, mate," Dad said with a grin that almost masked his trembling voice. "Hey, I thought you were supposed to be dead—they just couldn't get rid of you, could they?"

"Nope," Sirius replied, his matching smile making him look years younger and healthier. "I'm a dog, remember? We tend to hang on to things and never let go." He didn't bother wiping away the tears that trickled down his face as he spoke, and I didn't bother to wipe mine away, either.

* * *

Dirk and I walked down a deserted Main Street that night, with only the sounds of our sneakers scuffing the pavement breaking the silence between us. While Sirius and Dad caught up on old times together, Dirk had politely snuck out, saying that he had left some books back at his desk in the library. I volunteered to accompany him, as I felt that Sirius and Dad really needed some time to themselves—there would be time for big group hugs and kumbayas later. Not to mention that I could sense the pain Dirk was feeling; while I was able to reunite with my godfather and a fairly-animate representation of my father, his mother was still missing and most likely gone forever.

"So…busy day," Dirk opined lamely as we continued walking. I let forth a very unfeminine snort in response.

"There's no need to hide the pain, Dirk," I finally said after another few moments of walking in silence. "I wish your mum could be here, too."

Dirk paused in mid-step, which forced me to stop and wait for him. He suddenly burst out laughing. "Is that what you were thinking?" he sighed when he was through, then continued walking as if nothing had happened. "Actually, I was wishing someone else could be with us tonight."

"Who?"

Dirk turned to me with a sad smile. "My dad. My real one, that is—Mum never told me who he was, and it makes me wonder…" He sighed again. "Well, since I turned out to be a wizard, doesn't it make sense that Dad was a wizard, too?"

That made me think for a minute. Dirk was right, in a sense, but his logic was making one major assumption… "Your dad didn't have to be a wizard," I pointed out. "It could just as well have been your mum, right?"

Dirk shook his head emphatically. "Absolutely not! Mum was as non-magical as you could possibly get! She always thought the _Harry Potter_ series was a load of hogwash, and she'd give me a good telling-off when she saw me reading it. There's no way in hell that she could've been a witch!"

I shrugged, about to come back with a retort, when Dirk stiffened and put a hand on my arm, stopping me from moving forward. Just ahead of us, slumped against a streetlight and illuminated in its yellow light, sat the familiar hunched figure of Dirk's stepfather. He seemed to be clutching a bottle of liquor and muttering to himself as he rocked back and forth.

"Dammit," Dirk hissed. "Jim's gone and gotten himself dead drunk again…"

"Let's just walk past him," I urged in a whisper. "Maybe he won't notice us—oh, crap…"

My cell phone chose that particularly bad moment to start ringing in my pocket, drawing the unwanted attention of the drunken man before us. As I fumbled to shut the blasted thing off, Mr. Ewell leaned forward and narrowed his eyes when he recognized Dirk. "BOY!" he roared, struggling to get to his feet. "GET OVER 'ERE, YOU GODDAMN SONUVABITCH! 'OW DARE YOU RUN OFF FROM HOME LIKE THAT!"

Dirk shoved me, hard, so that I went flying into the shrubbery lining the street. When my vision cleared a moment later, I saw him standing over me with my father's wand pointed between my eyes. "_Petrificus Totalus!_" he said quietly. I felt my entire body go rigid like a plank; when I tried to swear or at least ask Dirk to stop, I found I couldn't even move my jaws. Instead, I was forced to watch from between the branches of the bush I lay in as Dirk pocketed the wand, then turned and faced his lurching stepfather like the proud young man he was.

"YOU SORRY BASTARD!" Mr. Ewell yelled and wildly waved his empty bottle in the air. "D'YOU KNOW HOW MUCH WORRY YOU BEEN TO ME! DISAPPEARING AND LEAVING ALL THE WORK TO ME LIKE THE BUM YOU ARE! EXPLAIN YERSELF!"

"That's funny," I heard Dirk say in a dangerous tone. "Last I heard, Mum's gone missing, and you couldn't care less. Excuse me if I thought it would be different this time. And stop drinking me out of house and home, by the by, as that would be _my_ money you're spending."

Mr. Ewell gave another inhuman shriek before running at Dirk with his arms outstretched, meaning to grab his stepson by the throat. But Dirk easily side-stepped him and let him stumble on past. However, Dirk didn't expect Mr. Ewell to make such a quick turnaround and attack again from behind.

I wanted to scream as I watched Mr. Ewell smash the liquor bottle on the back of Dirk's head, but the Full-Body Bind wouldn't let me. And so, I watched in horror as Dirk crumpled, clutching at his head as blood spurted from the gash on his temple. My best friend lay still and silent on the ground just feet away from me, and I could do nothing but be a passive observer—if that didn't rip my soul to pieces, I don't know what did.

Mr. Ewell giggled like a small child, dropping the now-broken bottle onto the ground next to Dirk and pulling out something long and glittering from the inside of his stained jacket. "You say yer worried 'bout yer mum, you brat?" he asked Dirk's unmoving form. "You can go and check up on her, then—have fun!" And as he raised the switchblade high over his head, like an asp ready to strike, I suddenly had no doubts as to Mrs. Vandimar's wretched fate.

On the other hand, I had also just felt my muscles relax as Dirk slipped into unconsciousness. The Full-Body Bind had worn off in the nick of time.

"_EXPELLIARMUS!_" I cried, not even bothering to aim this time; the switchblade flew out of Mr. Ewell's hand, striking a tree trunk behind him and quivering in the tree like a dart. Mr. Ewell's drunken gaze slowly wheeled onto my hiding place, and I didn't wait for him to see me before casting my next spell. "_Stupefy!_"

Mr. Ewell took a step forward before collapsing with a snarl frozen on his lips. I quickly extricated myself from the bush and practically threw myself on top of my bleeding best friend. Dirk moaned and tried to roll over, but I stopped him before he could hurt himself any further. "God—that—hurts," he gasped as I cast a spell on his wound to stop the bleeding. "What—the _fuck_—happened?"

I knew that, when Dirk had progressed to using full-blown swear words, the situation was very bad indeed. "That bastard of a stepfather of yours," I replied crisply as I proceeded to dial for an ambulance on my cell phone, "decided to try to send you off to visit your mother. And yes, those were his exact words. I'm getting you to the hospital first…and then we'll see about a police escort for one self-confessed murderer in the neighborhood."


End file.
